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THE NOVELS AND ROMANCES 

OF 

EDWARD BULWER LYTTON 

(LORD LYTTON) 


i^anlip Siftrarp <CJ)ttion 

ZANONI 

ZICCI 


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INTRODUCTION. 


One of the peculiarities of Bulwer was his passion 
for occult studies. They had a charm for him early 
in life, and he pursued them with the earnestness 
which characterized his pursuit of other studies. 
He became absorbed in wizard lore ; he equipped 
himself with magical implements, — with rods for 
transmitting influence, and crystal balls in which 
to discern coming scenes and persons; and com- 
muned with spiritualists and mediums. The fruit 
of these mystic studies is seen in “ Zanoni ” and “ A 
Strange Story,” romances which were a labor of 
love to the author, and into which he threw all the 
power he possessed, — power re-enforced by multi- 
farious reading and an instinctive appreciation of 
Oriental thought. These weird stories, in which 
the author has formulated his theory of magic, are 
of a wholly different type from his previous fictions, 
and, in place of the heroes and villains of every day 
life, we have beings that belong in part to another 
sphere, and that deal with mysterious and occult 
agencies. Once more the old forgotten lore of the 
Cabala is unfolded; the furnace of the alchemist, 
whose fires have been extinct for centuries, is lighted 
anew, and the lamp of the Rosicrucian re-illumed. 


X 


INTKODUCTION. 


No other works of the author, contradictory as have 
been the opinions of them, have provoked such a 
diversity of criticism as these. To some persons 
they represent a temporary aberration of genius 
rather than any serious thought or definite purpose ; 
while others regard them as surpassing in bold and 
original speculation, profound analysis of character, 
and thrilling interest, all of the author’s other 
works. The truth, we believe, lies midway between 
these extremes. It is qifestionable whethe-r the 
introduction into a novel of such subjects as are 
discussed in these romances be not an offence 
against good sense and good taste ; but it is as 
unreasonable to deny the vigor and originality of 
their author’s conceptions, as to deny that the 
execution is imperfect, and, at times, bungling and 
absurd. 

It has been justly said that the present half 
century has witnessed the rise and triumphs of 
science, the extent and marvels of which even 
Bacon’s fancy never conceived, simultaneously with 
superstitions grosser than any which Bacon’s age 
believed. “ The one is, in fact, the natural reaction 
from the other. The more science seeks to exclude 
the miraculous, and reduce all nature, animate and 
inanimate, to an invariable law of sequences, the 
more does the natural instinct of man rebel, and 
seek an outlet for those obstinate questionings, 
those ‘ blank misgivings of a creature moving about 
in worlds not realized,’ taking refuge in delusions as 


. INTRODUCTION. 


Xl 


degrading as any of the so-called Dark Ages.” It 
was the revolt from the chilling materialism of the 
age which inspired the mystic creations of “ Zanoni ” 
and “ A Strange Story.” Of these works, which 
support and supplement each other, one is the con- 
templation of our actual life through a spiritual 
medium, the other is designed to show that, with- 
out some gleams of the supernatural, man is not 
man, nor nature nature. 

In “ Zanoni ” the author introduces us to two 
human beings who have achieved immortality : one, 
Mejnour, void of all passion or feeling, calm, be- 
nignant, bloodless, an intellect rather than a man ; 
the other, Zanoni, the pupil of Mejnour, the repre- 
sentative of an ideal life in its utmost perfection, 
possessing eternal youth, absolute power, and abso- 
lute knowledge, and withal the fullest capacity to 
enjoy and to love, and, as a necessity of that love, 
to sorrow and despair. By his love for Viola 
Zanoni is compelled to descend from his exalted 
state, to lose his eternal calm, and to share in the 
cares and anxieties of humanity ; and this degrada- 
tion is completed by the birth of a child. Finally, 
he gives up the life which hangs on that of another, 
in order to save that other, the loving and beloved 
wife, who has delivered him from his solitude and 
isolation. Wife and child are mortal, and to out- 
live them and his love for them is impossible. But 
Mejnour, who is the impersonation of thought, — 
pure intellect without affection, — lives on. 


INTRODUCTION 


xii 

Bulwer has himself justly characterized this 
work, in the Introduction, as a romance and not a 
romance, as a truth for those who can compre- 
hend it, and an extravagance for those who cannot. 
The most careless or matter-of-fact reader must see 
that the work, like the enigmatical Faust,” deals 
in types and symbols; that the writer intends to 
suggest to the mind something more subtle and 
impalpable than that which is embodied to the 
senses. What that something is, hardly two per- 
sons will agree. The most obvious interpretation 
of the types is, that in Zanoni the author depicts to 
us humanity, perfected, sublimed, which lives not 
for self, but for others ; in Mejnour, as we have 
before said, cold, passionless, self-sufficing intellect; 
in Glyndon, the young Englishman, the mingled 
strength and weakness of human nature ; in the 
heartless, selfish artist, Nicot, icy, soulless atheism, 
believing nothing, hoping nothing, trusting and 
loving nothing ; and in the beautiful, artless Viola, 
an exquisite creation, pure womanhood, loving, 
trusting, and truthful. As a work of art the 
romance is one of great power. It is original in its 
conception, and pervaded by one central idea ; but 
it would have been improved, we think, by a more 
sparing use of the supernatural. The inevitable 
effect of so much hackneyed diablerie — of such an 
accumulation of wonder upon wonder — is to 
deaden the impression they would naturally make 
upon us. In Hawthorne’s tales we see with what 


INTRODUCTION. 


xiii 

ease a great imaginative artist can produce a deeper 
thrill by a far slighter use of the weird and the 
mysterious. 

The chief interest of the story for the ordinary 
reader centres, not in its ghostly characters and 
improbable machinery, the scenes in Mejnour’s 
chamber in the ruined castle among the Apennines, 
the colossal and appalling apparitions on Vesuvius, 
the hideous phantom with its burning eye that 
haunted Glyndon, but in the loves of Viola and the 
mysterious Zanoni, the blissful and the fearful scenes 
through which they pass, and their final destiny, 
when the hero of the story sacrifices his own 
“ charmed life ” to save hers, and the Immortal finds 
the only true immortality in death. Among the 
striking passages in the work are the pathetic sketch 
of the old violinist and composer, Pisani, with his 
sympathetic “ barbiton ” which moaned, groaned, 
growled, and laughed responsive to the feelings of its 
master ; the description of Viola’s and her father’s 
triumph, when “ The Siren,” his masterpiece, is per- 
formed at the San Carlo in Naples ; Glyndon’s adven- 
ture at the Carnival in Naples ; the death of his sister ; 
the vivid pictures of the Keign of Terror in Paris, 
closing with the downfall of Eobespierre and his 
satellites ; and perhaps, above all, the thrilling scene 
where Zanoni leaves Viola asleep in prison when 
his guards call him to execution, and she, un- 
conscious of the terrible sacrifice, but awaking 
and missing him, has a vision of the procession to 


INTRODUCTION. 


xiy 

the guillotine, with Zanoni there, radiant in youth 
and beauty, followed by the sudden vanishing of 
the headsman, — the horror, — and the “ Welcome ” 
of her loved one to Heaven in a myriad of melodies 
from the choral hosts above. 

“Zanoni” was originally published by Saunders 
and Otley, London, in three volumes 12mo., in 
1842. A translation into French, made by M. 
Sheldon under the direction of P. Lorain, was pub- 
lished in Paris in the “ Biblioth^que des Meilleurs 
Komans Strangers.” 


W. M. 


PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1853. 


As a work of imagination, “ Zanoni ” ranks, perhaps, 
amongst the highest of my prose fictions. In the Poem 
of “ King Arthur, ” published many years ■ afterwards, I 
have taken up an analogous design, in the contemplation 
of our positive life through a spiritual medium; and I 
have enforced, through a far wider development, and, I 
believe, with more complete and enduring success, that 
harmony between the external events which are all that 
the superficial behold on the surface of human affairs, 
and the subtle and intellectual agencies which in reality 
influence the conduct of individuals, and shape out the 
destinies of the world. As man has two lives, — that of 
action and that of thought, — so I conceive that work to 
he the truest representation of humanity which faithfully 
delineates both, and opens some elevating glimpse into 
the sublimest mysteries of our being, by establishing the 
inevitable union that exists between the plain things of 
the day, in which our earthly bodies perform their allotted 
part, and the latent, often uncultivated, often invisible, 
affinities of the soul with all the powers that eternally 
breathe and move throughout the Universe of Spirit. 

I refer those who do me the honor to read “ Zanoni ” with 
more attention than is given to ordinary romance, to the 
Poem of “King Arthur,” for suggestive conjecture into 


XVI 


PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1853. 


most of the regions of speculative research, affecting the 
higher and more important condition of our ultimate 
being, which have engaged the students of immaterial 
philosophy in my own age. 

Affixed to the “ Note ” with which this work concludes, 
and which treats of the distinctions between type and 
allegory, the reader will find, from the pen of one of our 
most eminent living writers, an ingenious attempt to 
explain the interior or typical meanings of the work now 
before him. 


INTRODUCTION. 


It is possible that among my readers there may he a few 
not unacquainted with an old-hook shop, existing some 
years since in the neighborhood of Co vent Garden; I say 
a few, for certainly there was little enough to attract the 
many in those precious volumes which the labor of a 
life had accumulated on the dusty shelves of my old 

friend D . There were to be found no popular 

treatises, no entertaining romances, no histories, no 
travels, no “ Library for the People, ” no “ Amusement 
for the Million. ” But there, perhaps, throughout , all 
Europe, the curious might discover the most notable 
collection, ever amassed by an enthusiast, of the works 
of alchemist, cabalist, and astrologer. The owner had 
lavished a fortune in the purchase of unsalable treasures. 

But old D did not desire to sell. It absolutely went 

to his heart when a customer entered his shop; he 
watched the movements of the presumptuous intruder 
with a vindictive glare ; he fluttered around him with 
uneasy vigilance, — he frowned, he groaned, when profane 
hands dislodged his idols from their niches. If it were 
one of the favorite sultanas of his wizard harem that 
attracted you, and the price named were not sufficiently 
enormous, he would not unfrequently double the sum. 
Demur, and in brisk delight he snatched the venerable 
charmer from your hands; accede, and he became the 


XVlll 


INTRODUCTION. 


picture of despair, — nor unfrequently, at the dead of 
night, would he knock at your door, and entreat you to 
sell him back, at your own terms, what you had so 
egregiously bought at his. A believer himself in his 
Averroes and Paracelsus, he was as loth as the philoso- 
phers he studied to communicate to the profane the 
learning he had collected. 

It so chanced that some years ago, in my younger days, 
whether of authorship or life, I felt a desire to make 
myself acquainted with the true origin and tenets of the 
singular sect known by the name of Rosicrucians. Dis- 
satisfied with the scanty and superficial accounts to be 
found in the works usually referred to on the subject, it 

struck me as possible that Mr. D ’s collection, which 

was rich, not only in black-letter, but in manuscripts, 
might contain some more accurate and authentic records 
of that famous brotherhood, — written, who knows ? by 
one of their own order, and confirming by authority and 
detail the pretensions to wisdom and to virtue which 
Bringaret had arrogated to the successors of the Chaldean 
and Gymnosophist. Accordingly I repaired to what, 
doubtless, I ought to be ashamed to confess, was once one 
of my favorite haunts. But are there no errors and no 
fallacies, in the chronicles of our own day, as absurd as 
those of the alchemists of old ? Our very newspapers 
may seem to our posterity as full of delusions as the 
books of the alchemists do to us ; not but what the press 
is the air we breathe, — and uncommonly foggy the air is 
too! 

On entering the shop, I was struck by the venerable 
appearance of a customer whom I had never seen there 
before. I was struck yet more by the respect with which 
he was treated by the disdainful collector. “ Sir, cried 
the last, emphatically, as I was turning over the leaves 


INTKODUCTION. 


xix 


of the catalogue, — “ sir, you are the only man I have 
met, in five-and-forty years that I have spent in these 
researches, who is worthy to he my customer. How — 
where, in this frivolous age, could you have acquired a 
knowledge so profound? And this august fraternity, 
whose doctrines, hinted at by the earliest philosophers, 
are still a mystery to the latest; tell me if there really 
exists upon the earth any hook, any manuscript, in 
which their discoveries, their tenets, are to he learned ? ” 

At the words, “ august fraternity, ” I need scarcely say 
that my attention had been at once aroused, and I 
listened eagerly for the stranger’s reply. 

“ I do not think,” said the old gentleman, “ that the 
masters of the school have ever consigned, except 
by obscure hint and mystical parable, their real doc- 
trines to the world. And I do not blame them for their 
discretion. ” 

Here he paused, and seemed about to retire, when I 
said, somewhat abruptly, to the collector, “ I see nothing, 

Mr. I) , in this catalogue which relates to the 

Hosi crucians ! ” 

“ The Kosicrucians ! ” repeated the old gentleman, and 
in his turn he surveyed me with deliberate surprise. 
“ Who but a Rosicrucian could explain the Rosicrucian 
mysteries! And can you imagine that any members of 
that sect, the most jealous of all secret societies, would 
themselves^ lift the veil that hides the Isis of their 
wisdom from the world V' 

“ Aha ! ” thought I, “ this, then, is ‘ the august frater- 
nity ’ of which you spoke. Heaven be praised! I 
certainly have stumbled on one of the brotherhood. ” 

But, ” I said aloud, “ if not in books, sir, where else 
am I to obtain information ? Nowadays one can hazard 
nothing in print without authority, and one may scarcely 


XX 


INTRODUCTION. 


quote Shakespeare without citing chapter and verse. 
This is the age of facts, — the age of facts, sir. ” 

“ Well, ’’said the old gentleman, with a pleasant smile, 
“ if we meet again, perhaps, at least, I may direct youi 
researches to the proper source of intelligence.” And 
with that he buttoned his greatcoat, whistled to his dog, 
and departed. 

It so happened that I did meet again with the old 
gentleman, exactly four days after our brief conversation 

in Mr. D ’s hook-shop. I was riding leisurely 

towards Highgate, when, at the foot of its classic hill, I 
recognized the stranger ; he was mounted on a black pony, 
and before him trotted his dog, which was black also. 

If you meet the man whom you wish to know, on 
horseback, at the commencement of a long hill, where, 
unless he has borrowed a friend’s favorite hack, he can- 
not, in decent humanit}’’ to the brute creation, ride away 
from you, I apprehend that it is your own fault if you 
have not gone far in your object before you have gained 
the top. In short, so well did I succeed, that on reach- 
ing Highgate the old gentleman invited me to rest at his 
house, which was a little apart from the village ; and an 
excellent house it was, — small, but commodious, with a 
large garden, and commanding from the windows such a 
prospect as Lucretius would recommend to philosophers : 
the spires and domes of London, on a clear day, dis- 
tinctly visible; here the Letreat of the Hermit, and 
there the Mare Magnum of the world. 

The walls of the principal rooms were embellished 
with pictures of extraordinary merit, and in that high 
school of art which is so little understood out of Italy. 
I was surprised to learn that they were all from the 
hand of the owner. My evident admiration pleased my 
new friend, and led to talk upon his part, which showed 


INTRODUCTION. 


XXI 


him no less elevated in his theories of art than an adept 
in the practice. Without fatiguing the reader with irre- 
levant criticism, it is necessary, perhaps, as elucidating 
much of the design and character of the work which 
these prefatory pages introduce, that I should briefly 
observe, that he insisted as much upon the connection of 
the arts, as a distinguished author has upon that of the 
sciences ; that he held that in all works of imagination, 
whether expressed by words or by colors, the artist of 
the higher schools must make the broadest distinction 
between the real and the true, — in other words, between 
the imitation of actual life, and the exaltation of Nature 
into the Ideal. 

“ The one, ” said he, “ is the Dutch School, the other 
is the Greek.” 

“ Sir, ” said I, “ the Dutch is the most in fashion. ” 

“Yes, in painting, perhaps,” answered my host, “but 
in literature — ” 

“ It was of literature I spoke. Our growing poets are 
all for simplicity and Betty Foy ; and our critics hold 
it the highest praise of a work of imagination, to say 
that its characters are exact to common life. Even in 
sculpture — ” 

“In sculpture ! No, no! there the high ideal must at 
least be essential ! ” 

“ Pardon me ; I fear you have not seen Souter Johnny 
and Tam O’Shanter. ” 

“ Ah ! ” said the old gentleman, shaking his head, “ I 
live very much out of the world, I see. I suppose 
Shakespeare has ceased to be admired ? ” 

“ On the contrary; people make the adoration of 
Shakespeare the excuse for attacking everybody else. 
But then our critics have discovered that Shakespeare is 
so real ! ” 


XXll 


INTRODUCTION. 


“ Keal ! The poet who has never once drawn a char- 
acter to he met with in actual life, — who has never once 
descended to a passion that is false, or a personage who 
is real! ” 

I was about to reply very severely to this paradox, 
when I perceived that my companion was growing a 
little out of temper. And he who wishes to catch a 
Rosicrucian, must take care not to disturb the waters. 
I thought it better, therefore, to turn the conversation. 

“ Revenons a nos moutons, ” said I ; “ you promised to 
enlighten my ignorance as to the Rosicrucians. ” 

“Well!” quoth he, rather sternly; “but for what 
purpose ? Perhaps you desire only to enter the temple 
in order to ridicule the rites ? ” 

“What do you take me for! Surely, were I so 
inclined, the fate of the Abbe de Villars is a sufficient 
warning to all men not to treat idly of the realms of the 
Salamander and the Sylph. Everybody knows how 
mysteriously that ingenious personage was deprived of 
his life, in revenge for the witty mockeries of his ‘ Comte 
deGahalis.’” 

“ Salamander and Sylph ! I see that you faU into the 
vulgar error, and translate literally the allegorical language 
of the mystics.” 

With that the old gentleman condescended to enter into 
a very interesting, and, as it seemed to‘ me, a very 
erudite relation, of the tenets of the Rosicrucians, some 
of whom, he asserted, still existed, and still prosecuted, 
in august secrecy, their profound researches into natural 
science and occult philosophy. 

“ But this fraternity, ” said he, .“ however respectable 
and virtuous, — virtuous I say, for no monastic order is 
more severe in the practice of moral precepts, or more 
ardent in Christian faith, — this fraternity is but a branch 


INTRODUCTION. 


XXIU 


of others yet more transcendant in the powers they have 
obtained, and yet more illustrious in their origin. Are 
you acquainted with the Platonists ? ” 

“ I have occasionally lost my way in their labyrinth, ” 
said I. “ Faith, they are rather difficult gentlemen to 
understand. ” 

Yet their knottiest problems have never yet been 
published. Their suhlimest works are in manuscript, 
and constitute the initiatory learning, not only of the 
Posicrucians, but of the nobler brotherhoods I have re- 
ferred to. More solemn and sublime still is the knowledge 
to he gleaned from the elder Pythagoreans, and the 
immortal masterpieces of Apollonius.” 

“ Apollonius, the impostor of Tyanea ! are his writings 
extant ? ” 

“ Impostor ! ” cried my host ; “ Apollonius an impostor ! ” 
I beg your pardon ; I did not know he was a friend 
of yours ; and if you vouch for his character, I will be- 
lieve him to have been a very respectable man, who only 
spoke the truth when he bqasted of his power to be in two 
places at the same time.” 

“ Is that so difficult ? ” said the old gentleman ; “ if so, 
you have never dreamed! ” 

Here ended our conversation; but from that time an 
acquaintance was formed between us which lasted till my 
venerable friend departed this life. Peace to his ashes! 
He was a person of singular habits and eccentric opinions ; 
but the chief part of his time was occupied in acts of 
quiet and unostentatious goodness. He was an enthusi- 
ast in the duties of the Samaritan; and as his virtues 
were softened by the gentlest charity, so his hopes were 
based upon the devoutest belief. He never conversed 
upon his own origin and history, nor have I ever been 
able to penetrate the darkness in which they were com 


XXIV 


INTRODUCTION. 


cealed. He seemed to have seen much of the world, and 
to have been an eye-witness of the first French Revolution, 
a subject upon which he was equally eloquent and instruc- 
tive. At the same time he did not regard the crimes of 
that stormy period with the philosophical leniency with 
which enlightened writers (their heads safe upon their 
shoulders) are, in the present day, inclined to treat the 
massacres of the past : he spoke not as a student who had 
read and reasoned, hut as a man who had seen and 
suffered. The old gentleman seemed alone in the world; 
nor did I know that he had one relation, till his executor, 
a distant cousin, residing abroad, informed me of the 
Tery handsome legacy which my poor friend had be- 
queathed me. This consisted, first, of a sum about which 
I think it best to be guarded, foreseeing the possibility of 
a new tax upon real and funded property ; and, secondly, 
of certain precious manuscripts, to which the following 
volumes owe their existence. 

I imagine I trace this latter bequest to a visit I paid 
the Sage, if so I may be permitted to call him, a few 
weeks before his death. 

Although he read little of our modern literature, my 
friend, with the affable good-nature which belonged to 
him, graciously permitted me to consult him upon various 
literary undertakings meditated by the desultory ambition 
of a young and inexperienced student. And at that time 
I sought his advice upon a work of imagination, intended 
to depict the effects of enthusiasm upon different modifica- 
tions of character. He listened to my conception, which 
was sufficiently trite and prosaic, with his usual patience ; 
and then, thoughtfully turning to his bookshelves, took 
down an old volume, and read to me, first, in Greek, and 
secondly, in English, some extracts to the following 
effect : — 


INTRODUCTION. 


XXY 


Plato here expresses four kinds of mania, by which I 
desire to understand enthusiasm and the inspiration of 
the gods; Firstly, the musical; secondly, the telestic or 
mystic ; thirdly, the prophetic ; and fourthly, that which 
belongs to love.” 

The author he quoted, after contending that there is 
something in the soul above intellect, and stating that there 
are in our nature distinct energies, — by the one of which 
we discover and seize, as it were, on sciences and theorems 
with almost intuitive rapidity, by another, through which 
high art is accomplished, like the statues of Phidias, — 
proceeded to state that “ enthusiasm, in the true accepta- 
tion of the word, is, when that part of the soul which is 
above intellect is excited to the gods, and thence derives 
its inspiration.” 

The author, then pursuing his comment upon Plato, 
observes, that “ one of these manias may suffice (especially 
that which belongs to love) to lead back the soul to its 
first divinity and happiness ; but that there is an intimate 
union with them all; and that the ordinary progress 
through which the soul ascends is, primarily, through 
the musical ; next, through the telestic or mystic ; thirdly, 
through the prophetic; and lastly, through the enthusiasm 
of love.” 

While with a bewildered understanding and a reluctant 
attention I listened to these intricate .sublimities, my 
adviser closed the volume, and said with complacency, 
“ There is the motto for your book, — the thesis for 
your theme. ” 

Davus sum, non (Edipus/* said I, shaking my 
head, discontentedly. “ All this may be exceedingly fine, 
but, Heaven forgive me, — I don’t understand a word 
of it. The mysteries of your Eosicrucians, and your 
fraternities, are mere child’s play to the jargon of the 
Platonists. ” 


XXVI 


INTRODUCTION, 


“ Yet, not till you rightly understand this passage, 
can you understand the higher theories of the Rosicru- 
cians, or of the still nobler fraternities you speak of with 
so much levity. ” 

“ Oh, if that he the case, I give up in despair. Why 
not, since you are so well versed in the matter, take the 
motto for a hook of your own ? ” 

“But if I have already composed a book with that 
thesis for its theme, will you prepare it for the public ? ” 

“With the greatest pleasure,” said I, — alas, too 
rashly ! 

“I shall hold you to your promise,” returned the old 
gentleman, “ and when I am no more, you will receive 
the manuscripts. From what you say of the prevailing 
taste in literature, I cannot flatter you with the hope 
that you will gain much by the undertaking. And I tell 
you beforehand that you will find it not a little 
laborious. ” 

“ Is your work a romance * 

“ It is a romance, and it is not a romance. It is a 
truth for those who can comprehend it, and an extrava- 
gance for those who cannot. ” 

At last there arrived the manuscripts, with a brief 
note from my deceased friend, reminding me of my 
imprudent promise. 

With mournful interest, and yet with eager impatience, 
I opened the packet and trimmed my lamp. Conceivo 
my dismay when I found the whole written in an uni»»- 
telligible cipher. I present the reader with a specimen ' 



INTEODUCTION. 


• X XVll 


and so on for nine hundred and forty mortal pages in 
foolscap. I could scarcely believe my eyes: in fact, I 
began to think the lamp burned singularly blue ; and 
sundry misgivings as to the unhallowed nature of the 
characters I had so unwittingly opened upon, coupled 
with the strange hints and mystical language of the old 
gentleman, crept through my disordered imagination. 
Certainly, to say no worse of it, the whole thing looked 
uncanny ! I was about, precipitately, to hurry the papers 
into my desk, with a pious determination to have nothing 
more to do with theih, when my eye fell upon a book, 
neatly bound in blue morocco, and which, in my eager- 
ness, I had hitherto overlooked. I opened this volume 
with great precaution, not knowing what might jump 
out, and — guess my delight — found that it contained 
a key or dictionary to the hieroglyphics. Not to weary 
the reader with an account of my labors, I am contented 
with saying that at last I imagined myself capable of 
construing the characters, and set to work in good earnest. 
Still it was no easy task, and two years elapsed before I 
had made much progress. I then, by way of experiment 
on the public, obtained the insertion of a few desultory 
chapters, in a. periodical with which, for a few months, I 
had the honor to be connected. They appeared to excite 
more curiosity than I had presumed to anticipate : and I 
renewed, with better heart, my laborious undertaking. 
But now a new misfortune befell me : I found, as I pro- 
ceeded, that the author had made two copies of his work, 
one much more elaborate and detailed than the other; I 
had stumbled upon the earlier copy, and had my whole 
task to remodel, and the chapters I had written to 
retranslate. I may say then, that, exclusive of intervals 
devoted to more pressing occupations, my unlucky 
promise cost me the toil of several years before I could 


xxviir 


INTRODUCTION. 


bring it to adequate fulfilment. The task was the more diffi- 
cult, sinc'e the style in the original is written in a kind of 
rhythmical prose, as if the author desired that in some 
degree his work should be regarded as one of poetical 
conception and design. To this it was not possible to do 
justice, and in the attempt I have doubtless very often 
need of the reader’s indulgent consideration. My natural 
respect for the old gentleman’s vagaries, with a muse of 
equivocal character, must be my only excuse whenever 
the language, without luxuriating into verse, borrows 
flowers scarcely natural to prose. Truth compels me also 
to confess, that, with all my pains, I am by no means 
sure that I have invariably given the true meaning of 
the cipher ; nay, that here and there either a gap in the 
narrative, or the sudden assumption of a new cipher, to 
which no key was afforded, has obliged me to resort to 
interpolations of my own, no doubt easily discernible, but 
which, I flatter myself, are not inharmonious to the gen- 
eral design. This confession leads me to the sentence 
with which I shall conclude: If, reader, in this book 
there be anything that pleases you, it is certainly mine; 
but whenever you come to something you dislike, — lay 
the blame upon the old gentleman! 

London, January, 1842. 

N. B. — The notes appended to the text are sometimes by the 
author, sometimes by the editor. I have occasionally (but not 
always) marked the distinction ; where, however, this is omitted, 
the ingenuity of the reader will be rarely at fault. 


Z ANONL 


BOOK 1. 

THE MUSICIAN. 


CHAPTER I. 

Vergina era 

D’ alta belta, ma sua belta non cura : 


Di natura, d’ amor, de’ cieli amici 
Le negligenze sue sono artifici.^ 

Gerusal. Lib., canto ii. xiv.-xyiii. 


At Naples, in the latter half of the last century, a 
worthy artist named Gaetano Pisani lived and flour- 
ished. He was a musician of great genius, but not of 
popular reputation; there was in all his compositions 
something capricious and fantastic which did not 
please the taste of the Dilettanti of Naples. He was 
fond of unfamiliar subjects into which he introduced airs 
and symphonies that excited a kind of terror in those 
who listened. The names of his pieces will probably 

1 She was a virgin of a glorious beauty, but regarded not her 
beauty. . . . Negligence itself is art in those favored by 

Nature, by love, and by the heavens. 


9 


ZANONL 


suggest tlieir nature. I find, for instance, among hia 
MSS., these titles: “ The Feast of the Harpies,” “ The 
Witches at Benevento,” “ The Descent of Orpheus into 
Hades,” “ The Evil Eye,” “ The Eumenides,” and many 
others that evince a powerful imagination delighting in 
the fearful and supernatural, but often relieved by an 
airy and delicate fancy with passages of exquisite grace 
and beauty. It is true that in the selection of his sub- 
jects from ancient fable, Gaetano Pisani was much more 
faithful than his contemporaries to the remote origin 
and the early genius of Italian Opera. That descen- 
dant, however effeminate, of the ancient union between 
Song and Drama, when, after long obscurity and 
dethronement, it regained a punier sceptre, though a 
gaudier purple, by the banks of the Etrurian Arno, or 
amidst the lagunes of Venice, had chosen all its primary 
inspirations from the unfamiliar and classic sources of 
heathen legend ; and Pisani’s “ Descent of Orpheus ” 
was but a bolder, darker, and more scientific repetition 
of the ■“ Euridice ” which Jacopi Peri set to music at 
the august nuptials of Henry of Navarre and Mary of 
Medicis.^ Still, as I have said, the style of the 
Neapolitan musician was not on the whole pleasing to 
ears grown nice and euphuistic in the more dulcet melo- 
dies of the day; and faults and extravagances easily 
discernible, and often to appearance wilful, served the 
critics for an excuse for their distaste. Fortunately, 
or the poor musician might have starved, he was not 
only a composer, but also an excellent practical per- 
former, especially on the violin, and by that instrument 
he earned a decent subsistence as one of the orchestra at 

1 Orpheus was the favorite hero of^ early Italian Opera, or 
Lyrical Drama. The Orfeo of Angelo Politiano was produced in 
1475. The Orfeo of Monte verde was performed at Venice in 1667. 


ZANONL 


3 


•the Great Theatre of San Carlo. Here formal and 
appointed tasks necessarily kept his eccentric fancies in 
tolerable check, thcngh it is recorded that no less than 
five times he had been deposed from his desk for having 
shocked the conoscenti, and thrown the whole band into 
confusion, by impromptu variations of so frantic and 
startling a nature that one might well have imagined 
that the harpies or witches who inspired his composi- 
tions had clawed hold of his instrument. The impossi- 
bility, however, to find any one of equal excellence as a 
performer (that is to say, in his more lucid and orderly 
moments) had forced his reinstalment, and he had now, 
for the most part, reconciled himself to the narrow 
sphere of his appointed adagios or allegros. The audi- 
ence, too, aware of his propensity, were quick to per- 
ceive the least deviation from the text; and if he wan- 
dered for a moment, which might also be detected by 
the eye as well as the ear, in some strange contortion of 
visage, and some ominous flourish of his bow, a gentle 
and admonitory murmur recalled the musician from his 
Elysium or his Tartarus to the sober regions of his desk. 
Then he would start as if from a dream, cast a hurried, 
frightened, apologetic glance around, and, with a crest- 
fallen, humbled air, draw his rebellious instrument 
back to the beaten track of the glib monotony. But at 
home he would make himself amends for this reluctant 
drudgery. And there, grasping the unhappy violin 
with ferocious fingers, he would pour forth, often till the 
morning rose, strange, wild measures that would startle 
the early fisherman on the shore below with a supersti- 
tious awe, and make him cross himself as if mermaid 
or sprite had wailed no earthly music in his ear. 

, This man’s appearance was in keeping with the char- 
acteristics of his art. The features were noble and 


4 


ZANONI. 


striking, but worn and haggard, with black, careless 
locks tangled into a, maze of curls, and a fixed, specula- 
tive, dreamy stare in his large and hollow eyes. All 
his movements were peculiar, sudden, and abrupt, as 
the impulse seized him; and in gliding through the 
streets, or along the beach, he was heard laughing and 
talking to himself. Withal, he was a harmless, guile- 
less, gentle creature, and would share his mite with 
any idle lazzaroni, whom he often paused to contemplate 
as they lay lazily basking in the sun. Yet was he 
thoroughly unsocial. He formed no friends, flattered 
no patrons, resorted to none of the merry-makings so 
dear to the children of music and the South. He and 
his art seemed alone suited to each other, — both quaint^ 
primitive, unworldly, irregular. You could not sepa- 
rate the man from his music; it was himself. Without 
it he was nothing, a mere machine! With it, he was 
king over worlds of his own. Poor man, he had littlo 
enough in this! At a manufacturing town in England 
there is a gravestone on which the epitaph records “ one 
Claudius Phillips, whose absolute contempt for riches, 
and inimitable performance on the violin, made him the 
admiration of all that knew him! ” Logical conjunction 
of opposite eulogies ! In proportion, O Genius, to thy con- 
tempt -for riches will be thy performance on thy violin! 

Gaetano Pisani’s talents as a composer had been 
chiefly exhibited in music appropriate to this his favorite 
instrument, of all unquestionably the most various and 
royal in its resources and power over the passions. As 
Shakespeare among poets is the Cremona among instru- 
ments. Nevertheless, he had composed other pieces of 
larger ambition and wider accomplishment, and chief 
of these, his precious, his unpurchased, his unpublished, 
his unpublishable and imperishable opera of the 


ZANONI. 


5 


“Siren.” This great work had been the dream of his 
boyhood, the mistress of his manhood; in advancing 
age “ it stood beside him like his youth.” Vainly had 
he struggled to place it before the world. Even bland, 
unjealous Paisiello, Maestro di Capella, shook his gentle 
head when the musician favored him with a specimen of 
one of his most thrilling scenas. And yet, Paisiello, 
though that music differs from all Durante taught thee 
to emulate, there may — but patience, Gaetano Pisani! 
bide thy time, and keep thy violin in tune! 

Strange as it may appear to the fairer reader, this 
grotesque personage had yet formed those ties which 
ordinary mortals are apt to consider their especial 
monopoly, — he was married, and had one child. What 
is more strange yet, his wife was a daughter of quiet, 
sober, unfantastic England : she was much younger than 
himself; she was fair and gentle, with a sweet- English 
face; she had married him from choice, and (will you 
believe it ?) she yet loved him. How she came to marry 
him, or how this shy, unsocial, wayward creature ever 
ventured to propose, I can only explain by asking you 
to look round and explain first to me how half the 
husbands and half the wives you meet ever found a 
mate! Yet, on reflection, this union was not so extraor- 
dinary after all. The girl was a natural child of parents 
too noble ever to own and claim her. She was brought 
into Italy to learn the art by which she was to live, for 
she had taste and voice; she was a dependant and 
harshly treated, and poor Pisani was her master, and 
his voice the only one she had heard from her cradle 
that seemed without one tone that could scorn or chide. 
And so — well, is the rest natural ? Natural or not, 
they married. This young wife loved her husband ; and 
young and gentle as she was, she might almost be said 


6 


ZANONI. 


to be the protector of the two. From how many dis^ 
graces with the despots of San Carlo and the Cbnserva- 
torio had her unknown officious mediation saved him! 
In how many ailments — for his frame was weak — had 
she nursed and tended him! Often, in the dark nights, 
she would wait at the theatre with her lantern to light 
him and her steady arm to lean on; otherwise, in his 
abstract reveries, who knows but the musician would 
have walked after his “ Siren ” into the sea! And then 
she would so patiently, perhaps (for in true love there 
is not always the finest taste) so delightedly, listen to 
those storms of eccentric and fitful melody, and steal 
him — whispering praises all the way — from the 
unwholesome night-watch to rest and sleep! I said his 
music was a part of the man, and this gentle creature 
seemed a part of the music; it was, in fact, when she 
sat beside him that whatever was tender or fairy-like 
in his motley fantasia crept into the harmony as by 
stealth. Doubtless her presence acted on the music, 
and shaped and softened it; but, he, who never exam- 
ined how or what his inspiration, knew it not. All 
that he knew w^as, that he loved and blessed her. He 
fancied he told her so twenty times a day ; but he never 
did, for he was not of many words, even to his wife. 
His language was his music, — as hers, her cares! He 
was more communicative to his barhiton, as the learned 
Mersennus teaches us to call all the varieties of the 
great viol family. Certainly barbiton sounds better 
than fiddle; and barbiton let it be. He would talk to 
that by the hour together, — praise it, scold it, coax 
it, nay (for such is man, even the most guileless), 
he had been known to swear at it ; but for that excess 
he was always penitentially remorseful. And the bar- 
biton had a tongue of his own, could take his own part. 


ZANONL 


7 


and when he also scolded, had much the best of it. He 
was a noble fellow, this Violin! — a Tyrolese, the handi- 
work of the illustrious Steiner. There was something 
mysterious in his great age. How many hands, now 
dust, had awakened his strings ere he became the Eobin 
Goodfellow and Familiar of Gaetano Pisani ! His very 
case was venerable, — ^ beautifully painted, it was said, 
by Caracci. An English collector had offered more for 
the case than Pisani had ever made by the violin. But 
Pisani, who cared not if he had inhabited a cabin him- 
self, was proud of a palace for the barbiton. His barbi- 
ton, it was his elder child! He had another child, and 
now we must turn to her. 

How shall I describe thee, Viola? Certainly the 
music had something to answer for in the advent of that 
young stranger. For both in her form and her character 
you might have traced a family likeness to that singular 
and spirit-like life of sound which night after night 
threw itself in airy and goblin sport over the starry 
seas. . . . Beautiful she was, but of a very uncommon 
beauty, — a combination, a harmony of opposite attri- 
butes. Her hair of a gold richer and purer than that 
which is seen even in the North; but the eyes, of all 
the dark, tender, subduing light of more than Italian — 
almost of Oriental — splendor. The complexion exqui- 
sitely fair, but never the same, — vivid in one moment, 
pale the next. And with the complexion, the expression 
also varied; nothing now so sad, and nothing now so 
joyous. 

I grieve to say that what v/e rightly entitle educa- 
tion was much neglected for their daughter by this sin- 
gular pair. To be sure, neither of them had much 
knowledge to bestow ; and knowledge was not then the 
fashion, as it is now. But accident or nature favored 


8 


ZANONI. 


young Viola. She learned, as of course, her mother^s 
language with her father’s. And she contrived soon to 
read and to write; and her mother, who, by the way, 
was a Roman Catholic, taught her betimes to pray. 
But then, to counteract all these acquisitions, the strange 
habits of Pisani, and the incessant watch and care which 
he required from his wife, often left the child alone 
with an old nurse, who, to be sure, loved her dearly, 
but who was in no way calculated to instruct her. 
Dame Gionetta was every inch Italian and Neapolitan. 
Her 3’'outh had been all love, and her age was all super- 
stition. She was garrulous, fond, — a gossip. Now she 
would prattle to the girl of cavaliers and princes at her 
feet, and now she would freeze her blood with tales and 
^gends, perhaps as old as Greek or Etrurian fable, of 
demon and vampire, — of the dances round the great 
walnut-tree at Benevento, and the haunting spell of the 
Evil Eye. All this helped silently to weave charmed 
webs over Viola’s imagination that afterthought and 
later years might labor vainly to dispel. And all this 
especially fitted her to hang, with a fearful joy, upon 
her father’s music. Those visionary strains, ever strug- 
gling to translate into wild and broken sounds the lan- 
guage of unearthly beings, breathed around her from her 
birth. Thus you might have said that her whole mind 
was full of music; associations, memories, sensations 
of pleasure or pain, — all were mixed up inexplicably 
with those sounds that now delighted and now terrified ; 
that greeted her when her eyes opened to the sun, and 
woke her trembling on her lonely couch in ’the darkness 
of the night. The legends and tales of Gionetta only 
served to make the child better understand the signifi- 
cation of those mysterious tones; they furnished her 
with words to the music. It was natural that the 


ZANONI. 


9 


daughter of such a parent should soon evince some taste 
in his art. But this developed itself chiefly in the ear 
and the voice. She was yet a child when she sang 
divinely. A great Cardinal — great alike in the State 
and the Conservatorio — heard of her gifts, and sent 
for her. From that moment her fate was decided : she' 
was to he the future glory of Naples, the prima donna 
of San Carlo. The Cardinal insisted upon the accom- 
plishment of his own predictions, and provided her with 
the most renowned masters. To inspire her with emula- 
tion, his Eminence took her one evening to his own box: 
it would he something to see the performance, some- 
thing more to hear the applause lavished upon the glit- 
tering signoras she was hereafter to excel! Oh, how 
gloriously that life of the stage, that fairy world of 
music and song, dawned upon her! It was the only 
world that seemed to correspond with her strange child- 
ish thoughts. It appeared to her as if, cast hitherto on 
a foreign shore, she was brought at last to see the forms 
and hear the language of her native land. Beautiful 
and true enthusiasm, rich with the promise of genius! 
Boy or man, thou wilt never be a poet, if thou hast not 
felt the ideal, the romance, the Calypso’s isle that 
opened to thee when for the first time the magic curtain 
was drawn aside, and let in the world of poetry on the 
world of prose ! 

And now the initiation was begun. She was to read, 
to study, to depict by a gesture, a look, the passions she 
was to delineate on the boards; lessons dangerous, in 
truth, to some, but not to the pure enthusiasm that 
comes from art ; for the mind that rightly conceives art 
is but a mirror which gives back what is cast on its 
surface faithfully only — while unsullied. She seized 
■on nature and truth intuitively. Her recitations became 


10 


ZANONI. 


full of unconscious power; her voice moved the heart 
to tears, or warmed it into generous rage. But this 
arose from that sympathy which genius ever has, even 
in its earliest innocence, with whatever feels, or aspires, 
or suffers. It was no premature woman comprehending 
the love or the jealousy that the words expressed; her 
art was one of those strange secrets which the psycholo- 
gists may unriddle to us if they please, and tell us why 
children of the simplest minds and the purest hearts are 
often so acute to distinguish, in the tales you tell them, 
or the songs you sing, the difference between the true art 
and the false, passion and jargon, Homer and Racine, 

■ — echoing back, from hearts that have not yet felt what 
they repeat, the melodious accents of the natural pathos. 
Apart from her studies, Viola was a simple, affection- 
ate , but somewhat wayward child , — wayward , not in 
temper, for that was sweet and docile; but in her 
moods, which, as I before hinted, changed from sad to 
gay and gay to sad without an apparent cause. If cause 
there were, it must be traced to the early and mysteri- 
ous influences I have referred to, when seeking to 
explain the effect produced on her imagination by those 
restless streams of sound that constantly played around 
it; for it is noticeable that to those who are much 
alive to the effects of music, airs and tunes often come 
back, in the commonest pursuits of life, to vex, as it 
were, and haunt them. The music, once admitted to 
the soul, becomes also a sort of spirit, and never dies. 
It wanders perturbedly through the halls and gaUeries 
of the memory, and is often heard again, distinct and 
living as when it first displaced the wavelets of the air. 
Now at times, then, these phantoms of sound floated 
back upon her fancy; if gay, to call a smile from every 
dimple; if mournful, to throw a shade upon her brow, 


ZANONI. 11 

— to make her cease from her childish mirth, and sit 
apart and muse. 

Kightly, then, in a typical sense, might this fair 
creature, so airy in her shape, so harmonious in her 
beauty, so unfamiliar in her ways and thoughts, — 
rightly might she he called a daughter, less of the musi- 
cian than the music, a being for whom you could 
imagine that some fate was reserved, less of actual life 
than the romance which, to eyes that can see, and hearts 
that can feel, glides ever along with the actual life, 
stream by stream, to the Dark Ocean. 

And therefore it seemed not strange that Viola her- 
self, even in childhood, and yet more as she bloomed 
into the sweet seriousness of virgin youth, should fancy 
her life ordained for a lot, whether of bliss or woe, that 
should accord with the romance and reverie which made 
the atmosphere she breathed. Frequently she would 
climb through the thickets that clothed the neighbor- 
ing grotto of Posilipo, — the mighty work of the old 
Cimmerians, — and, seated by the haunted Tomb of 
Virgil, indulge those visions, the subtle vagueness of 
which no poetry can render palpable and defined; 
for the Poet that surpasses all who ever sang, is the 
heart of dreaming youth! Frequently there, too, beside 
the threshold over which the vine-leaves clung, and 
facing that dark-blue, waveless sea, she would sit in the 
autumn noon or summer twilight, and build her castles 
in the air. Who doth not do the same, — not in youth 
alone, but with the dimmed hopes of age! It is man’s 
prerogative to dream, the common royalty of peasant and 
of king. But those day-dreams of hers were more habit- 
ual, distinct, and solemn than the greater part of us 
indulge. They seemed like the Orama of the Greeks, 

— prophets while phantasma. 


12 


ZANONL 


CHAPTER II. 

Fu stupor, fu vaghezza, f u diletto ! l 

Gerusal. Lib., cant. ii. xxi. 


Now at last the education is accomplished! Viola is 
nearly sixteen. The Cardinal' declares that the time is 
come when the new name must be inscribed in the Libro 
d’Oro, — the Golden Book set apart to the children of 
Art and Song. Yes, but in what character? — to whose 
genius is she to give embodiment and form? Ah, there 
is the secret! Rumors go abroad that the inexhaustible 
Paisiello, charmed with her performance of his ILel cor 
piu non me sento, and his lo son Lindoro, will produce 
some new masterpiece to introduce the debutante. 
Others insist upon it that her forte is the comic, and 
that Cimarosa is hard at work at another Matrimonio 
Segreto. But in the meanwhile there is a check in the 
diplomacy somewhere. The Cardinal is observed to be 
out of humor. He has said publicly, — and the words 
are portentous, — “ The silly girl is as mad as her father ; 
what she asks is preposterous! ” Conference follows 
conference; the Cardinal talks to the poor child very 
solemnly in his closet, — all in vain. Naples is dis- 
tracted with curiosity and conjecture. The lecture ends 
in a quarrel, and Viola comes home sullen and pouting: 
she will not act, — she has renounced the engagement. 

Pisani, too inexperienced to be aware of all the dan- 
gers of the stage, had been pleased at the notion that 

1 “ Desire it was, 't was wonder, ’t was delight." 

Wiffen’s Translation. ^ 


ZANONI. 


13 


one, at least, of his name would add celebrity to his 
art. The girPs perverseness displeased him. However, 
he said nothing, — he never scolded in words, but he 
took up the faithful barbiton. Oh, faithful barbiton,, 
how horribly thou didst scold! It screeched, it gab- 
bled, it moaned, it growled. And Viola’s eyes filled 
with tears, for she understood that language. She stole 
to her mother, and whispered in her ear; and when 
Pisani turned from his employment, lo! both mother and 
daughter were weeping. He looked at them with a 
wondering stare; and then, as if he felt he had been 
harsh, he flew again to his Familiar. And now you 
thought you heard the lullaby which a fairy might 
sing to some fretful changeling it had adopted and 
sought to soothe. Liquid, low, silvery, streamed the 
tones beneath the enchanted bow. The most stubborn 
grief would have paused to hear; and withal, at times, 
out came a wild, merry, ringing note, like a laugh, but 
not mortal laughter. It was one of his most successful 
airs from his beloved opera, — the Siren in the act of 
charming the waves and the winds to sleep. Heaven 
knows what next would have come, but his arm was 
arrested. Viola had thrown herself on his breast, and 
kissed him, with happy eyes that smiled through her 
sunny hair. At that very moment the door opened, — • 
a message from the Cardinal. Viola must go to his 
Eminence at once. Her mother went with her. All 
was reconciled and settled; Viola had her way, and 
selected her own opera. 0 ye dull nations of the North, 
with your broils and debates, — your bustling lives of 
the Pnyx and the Agora ! — you cannot guess what a stir 
throughout musical Naples was occasioned by the rumor 
of a new opera and a new singer. But whose the opera ? 
No cabinet intrigue ever was so secret. Pisani came 


14 


ZANONI. 


back one night from the theatre, evidently disturbed 
and irate. Woe to thine ears hadst thou heard the 
barbiton that night! They had suspended him from 
his office, — they feared that the new opera, and the first 
dehut of his daughter asy;r?ma d.onna, would be too much 
for his nerves. And his variations, his diablerie of 
sirens and harpies, on such a night, made a hazard not 
to be contemplated without awe. To be set aside, and 
on the very night that his child, whose melody was but 
an emanation of his own, was to perform, — set aside for 
some new arrival: it was too much for a musician’s flesh 
and blood. For the first time he spoke in words upon 
the subject, and gravely asked — for that question the 
barbiton , eloquent as it was, could not express distinctly 
— what was to be the opera, and what the part? And 
Viola as gravely answered that she was pledged to the 
Cardinal not to reveal. Pisani said nothing, but disap- 
peared with the violin; and presently they heard the 
Familiar from the house-top (whither, when thoroughly 
out of humor, the musician sometimes fled) , whining 
and sighing as if its heart were broken. 

The affections of Pisani were little visible on the 
surface. He was not one of those fond, caressing fathers 
whose children are ever playing round their knees; his 
mind and soul were so thoroughly in his art that 
domestic life glided by him, seemingly as if that were a 
dream, and the heart the substantial form and body of 
existence. Persons much cultivating an abstract study 
are often thus ; mathematicians proverbially so. When ^ 
his servant ran to the celebrated French philosopher, 
shrieking, “The house is on fire, sir! ” “Go and tell 
my wife then, fool! ” said the wise man, settling back 
to his problems ; “ do I ever meddle with domestic 
affairs ? ” But what are mathematics to music — music. 


ZANONI. 


15 


that not only composes operas, but plays on the harbi- 
ton? Do you know what the illustrious Giardini said 
when the tyro asked how long it would take to learn to 
play on the violin? Hear, and despair, ye who would 
bend the bow to which that of Ulysses was a plaything, 
“ Twelve hours a day for twenty years together! ” Can a 
man, then, who plays the harhiton be always playing 
also with his little ones? No, Pisani; often, with 'the 
keen susceptibility of childhood, poor Viola had stolen 
from the room to weep at the thought that thou didst 
not love her. And yet, underneath this outward abstrac- 
tion of the artist, the natural fondness flowed all the 
same; and as she grew up, the dreamer had understood 
the dreamer. And now, shut out from all fame him- 
self; to be forbidden to hail even his daughter’s 
fame ! — and that daughter herself to be in the conspiracy 
against him! Sharper than the serpent’s tooth was 
the ingratitude, and sharper than the serpent’s tooth was 
the wail of the pitying barbiton ! 

The eventful hour is come. Viola is gone to the 
theatre , — her mother with her. The indignant musi- 
cian remains at home. Gionetta bursts into the room: 
my Lord Cardinal’s carriage is at the door, — the 
Padrone is sent for. He must lay aside his violin ; he 
must put on hi^ brocade coat and his lace ruffles. Here 
they are, — quick, quick! And quick rolls the gilded 
coach, and majestic sits the driver, and statelily prance 
the steeds. Poor Pisani is lost in a mist of uncomfort- 
able amaze. He arrives at the theatre; he descends at 
the great door; he turns round and round, and looks 
about him and about: he misses something, — where is 
the violin? Alas! his soul, his voice, his self of self, 
is left behind ! It is but an automaton that the lackeys 
conduct up the stairs, through the tier, into the Car- 


16 


ZANONI. 


dinar s box. But then, what bursts upon him! Does 
he dream ? The first act is over (they did not send for 
him till success seemed no longer doubtful) ; the first act 
has decided all. He feels that by the electric sym- 
pathy which ever the one heart has at once with a 
vast audience. He feels it by the breathless stillness of 
that multitude; he feels it even by the lifted finger of 
the- Cardinal. He sees his Viola on the stage, radiant 
in her robes and gems, — he hears her voice thrilling 
through the single heart of the thousands! But the 
scene, the part, the music! It is his other child, — • 
his immortal child; the spirit-infant of his soul; his 
darling of many years of patient obscurity and pining 
genius; his masterpiece; his opera of the Siren! 

This, then, was the mystery that had so galled him, 

— this the cause of the quarrel with the Cardinal ; this 
the secret not to be proclaimed till the success was won, 
and the daughter had united her father’s triumph with 
her own! 

And there she stands, as all souls bow before her, — 
fairer than the very Siren he had called from the deeps 
of melody. Oh, long and sweet recompense of toil! 
Where is on earth the rapture like that which is known 
to genius when at last it bursts from its hidden cavern 
into light and fame! 

He did not speak, he did not move; he stood trans- 
fixed, breathless, the tears rolling down his cheeks; 
only from time to time his hands still wandered about, 

— mechanically they sought for the faithful instrument, 
why was it not there to share his triumph ? 

At last the curtain fell; but on such a storm and 
diapason of . applause! Up rose the audience as one 
man, as with one voice that dear name was shouted. 
She came on, trembling, pale, and in the whole crowd 


ZANONI. 


17 


saw but her father^s face. The audience followed those 
moistened eyes ; they recognized with a thrill the daugh- 
ter’s impulse and her meaning. The good old Cardinal 
drew him gently forward. Wild musician, thy daugh- 
ter has given thee back more than the life thou gavest! 

“ My poor violin! ” said he, wiping his eyes, “ they 
will never hiss thee again now! ” 


IS 


ZANONI. 


CHAPTER IIL 

Fra si contrarie tempre in ghiaccio e in foco, 

In riso e in pianto, e fra paura e speme 
Jj ingannatrice Donna — ^ 

Gerusal. Lib., cant. iv. xciv. 

Now notwithstanding the triumph both of the singer 
and the opera, there had been one moment in the first 
act, and, consequently, before the arrival of Pisani, when 
the scale seemed more than doubtful. It was in a chorus 
replete with all the peculiarities of the composer. And 
when this Maelstrom of Capricci whirled and foamed, 
and tore ear and sense through every variety of sound, 
the audience simultaneously recognized the hand of 
Pisani. A title had been given to the opera which had 
hitherto prevented all suspicion of its parentage; and 
the overture and opening, in which the music had been 
regular and sweet, had led the audience to fancy they 
detected the genius of their favorite Paisiello. Long 
accustomed to ridicule and almost to despise the preten- 
sions of Pisani as a composer, they now felt as if they 
had been unduly cheated into the applause with which 
they had hailed the overture and the commencing scenas. 
An ominous buzz circulated round the house ; the sing- 
ers, the orchestra, — electrically sensitive to the impres- 
sion of the audience, — grew, themselves, agitated and 
dismayed, and failed in the energy and precision which 
could alone carry off the grotesqueness of the music. 

^ Between such contrarious mixtures of ice and fire, laughter 
and tears, — fear and hope, the deceiving dame. 


ZANONI. 


19 


There are always in every theatre many rivals to a 
new author and a new performer, — a party impotent 
while all goes well, but a dangerous ambush the instant 
some accident throws into confusion the march of suc- 
cess. A hiss arose; it was partial, it is true, but the 
significant silence of all applause seemed to forebode the 
coming moment when the displeasure would grow con- 
tagious. It was the breath that stirred the impending, 
avalanche. At that critical moment Viola, the Siren 
queen, emerged for the first time from her ocean cave.) 
As she came forward to the lamps, the novelty of her 
situation, the chilling apathy of the audience, — which 
even the sight of so singular a beauty did not at the 
first arouse, — the whispers of the malignant singers on 
the stage, the glare of the lights, and more — far more, 
than the rest — that recent hiss, which had reached her 
in her concealment, all froze up her faculties and sus- 
pended her voice. And, instead of the grand invocation, 
into which she ought rapidly to have burst, the regal, 
Siren, retransformed into the trembling girl, stood pale 
and mute before the stern, cold array of those countless 
eyes. 

At that instant, and when consciousness itself seemed, 
about to fail her, as she turned a timid beseeching 
glance around the still multitude, she perceived, in a, 
box near the stage, a countenance which at once, and 
like magic, produced on her mind an effect never to 
be analyzed nor forgotten. It was one that awakened 
an indistinct, haunting reminiscence, as if she had seen 
it in those day-dreams she had been so wont from 
infancy to indulge. She could not withdraw her gaze 
from that face, and as she gazed, the awe and coldness 
that had before seized her, vanished like a mist from 
before the sun. ) 


20 


Z AN ONI. 


In the dark splendor of the eyes that met her own 
there was indeed so much of gentle encouragement, of 
benign and compassionate admiration, — so much that 
warmed, and animated, and nerved, — that any one, 
actor or orator, who has ever observed the effect that a 
single earnest and kindly look in the crowd that is to 
he addressed and won, will produce upon his mind, 
may readily account for the sudden and inspiriting influ- 
ence which the eye and smile of the stranger exercised 
on the debutante. 

And while yet she gazed, and the glow returned to 
her heart, the stranger half rose, as if to recall the audi- 
ence to a sense of the courtesy due to one so fair and 
young; and the instant his voice gave the signal, the 
audience followed it by a burst of generous applause. 
For this stranger himself was a marked personage, and 
his recent arrival at Naples had divided with the new 
opera the gossip of the city. And then as the applause 
ceased, clear, full, and freed from every fetter, like a 
spirit from the clay, the Siren’s voice poured forth its 
entrancing music. From that time Viola forgot the 
crowd, the hazard, the whole world, — except the fairy 
one over which she presided. It seemed that the stran- 
ger’s presence only served still more to heighten that 
delusion, in which the artist sees no creation without 
the circle of his art, she felt as if that serene brow, and 
those brilliant eyes, inspired her with powers never 
known before: and, as if searching for a language to 
express the strange sensations occasioned by his presence , 
that presence itself whispered to her the melody and 
the song. 

Only when all was over, and she saw her father and 
felt his joy, did this wild spell vanish before the sweeter 
one of the household and filial love. Yet again, as she 


ZANONI. 


21 


turned from the stage, she looked hack involuntarily, 
and the stranger’s calm and half-melancholy smile sank 
into her heart, — to live there, to be recalled with 
confused memories, half of pleasure, and half of pain. 

Pass over the congratulations of the good Cardinal- 
Virtuoso, astonished at finding himself and all Naples; 
had been hitherto in the wrong on a subject of taste, — 
still more astonished at finding himself and all Naples 
combining to confess it; pass over the whispered ecsta- 
sies of admiration which buzzed in the singer’s ear, as 
once more, in her modest veil and quiet dress, she 
escaped from the crowd of gallants that choked up every 
avenue behind the scenes; pass over the sweet embrace 
of father and child, returning through the starlit streets 
and along the deserted Chiaja in the Cardinal’s carriage;, 
never pause now to note the tears and ejaculations of 
the good, simple-hearted mother, — see them returned; 
see the well-known room, venimus ad larem nos- 
trum; ^ see old Gionetta bustling at the supper ; and 
hear Pisani, as he rouses the barbiton from its case, 
communicating all that has happened to the intelligent 
Familiar; hark to the mother’s merry, low, English 
laugh. Why, Viola, strange child, sittest thou apart, 
thy face leaning on thy fair hands, thine eyes fixed on 
space? Up, rouse thee! Every dimple on the cheek 
of home must smile to-night.^ 

And a happy reunion it was round that humble table: 
a feast Lucullus might have envied in his Hall of 
Apollo, in the dried grapes, and the dainty sardines, and 
the luxurious polenta, and the old Idcrima a present 
from the good Cardinal. The barbiton, placed on a 

^ We come to our own house. 

^ “ Ridete quidquid est domi cachinnorum. ” 

Catull. ad Sirm. Penin- 


22 


ZANONL 


chair — a tall , high -backed chair — beside the musician, 
seemed , to take a part in the festive meal. Its honest 
varnished face glowed in the light of the lamp; and 
there was an impish, sly demureness in its very silence, 
as its master, between every mouthful, turned to talk 
to it of something he had forgotten to relate before. 
The good wife looked on affectionately, and could not 
eat for joy; but suddenly she rose, and placed on the 
artist’s temples a laurel wreath, which she had woven 
beforehand in fond anticipation; and Viola, on the 
other side her brother, the barbiton, rearranged the 
chaplet, and, smoothing back her father’s hair, whis- 
pered, “Caro Padre, you will not let him scold me 
again! ” 

Then poor Pisani, rather distracted between the two, 
and excited both by the Idcrima and his triumph, turned 
to the younger child with so naive and grotesque a pride, 
“ I don’t know which to thank the most. You give me 
so much joy, child, — I am so proud of thee and myself. 
But he and I, poor fellow, have been so often unhappy 
together! ” 

Viola’s sleep was broken, — that was natural. The 
intoxication of vanity and triumph, the happiness in 
the happiness she had caused, all this was better than 
sleep. But still from all this, again and again her 
thoughts flew to those haunting eyes, to that smile with 
which forever the memory of the triumph, of the happi- 
ness, was to be united. Her feelings, like her own 
character, were strange and peculiar. They were not 
those of a girl whose heart, for the first time reached 
through the eye, sighs its natural and native language of 
first love. It was not so much admiration, though the 
face that reflected itself on every wave of her restless 
fancies was of the rarest order of majesty and beauty; 


ZANONI. 


23 


nor a pleased and enamoured recollection that the sight 
of this stranger had bequeathed : it was a human senti- 
ment of gratitude and delight, mixed with something 
more mysterious, of fear and awe. Certainly she had 
seen before those features ; but when and how ? Only 
when her thoughts had sought to shape out her future, 
and when, in spite of all the attempts to vision forth a 
fate of flowers and sunshine, a dark and chill foreboding 
made her recoil back into her deepest self. It was a 
something found that had long been sought for by a 
thousand restless yearnings and vague desires, less of , 
the heart than mind; not as when youth discovers the 
one to be beloved, but rather as when the student, long 
wandering after the clew to some truth in science, sees 
it glimmer dimly before him, to beckon, to recede, to 
allure, and to wane again. She fell at last into unquiet 
slumber, vexed by deformed, fleeting, shapeless phan- 
toms; and, waking, as the sun, through a veil of hazy 
cloud, glinted with a sickly ray across the casement, she 
heard her father settled back betimes to his one pursuit, 
and calling forth from his Familiar a low mournful 
strain, like a dirge over the dead. 

“ And why,’^ she asked, when she descended to the 
room below, — ** why, my father, was your inspiration 
so sad, after the joy of last night? ” 

“ I know not, child. I meant to be merry, and com- 
pose an air in honor of thee; but he is an obstinate 
fellow, this, — and he would have it so." 


24 


ZANONI. 


CHAPTER rV. 

E cosi i pigri e timidi desiri 
Sprona. ^ 

Gerusal. Lib., cant. iv. Ixxxviii. 

It was the custom of Pisani, except when the duties 
of his profession made special demand on his time, to 
devote a certain portion of the mid-day to sleep, — a habit 
not so much a luxury as a necessity to a man who slept 
very little during the night. In fact, whether to com- 
pose or to practise, the hours of noon were precisely 
those in which Pisani could not have been active if he 
would. His genius resembled those fountains full at 
dawn and evening, overflowing at night, and perfectly 
dry at the meridian. During this time, consecrated by 
her husband to repose, the signora generally stole out to 
make the purchases necessary for the little household, 
or to enjoy (as what woman does not ?) a little relaxation 
in gossip with some of her own sex. And the day 
following this brilliant triumph, how many congratula- 
tions would she have to receive ! 

At these times it was Viola’s habit to seat herself 
without the door of the house, under an awning which 
sheltered from the sun without obstructing the view; 
and there now, with the prompt-book on her knee, on 
which her eye roves listlessly from time to time, you 
may behold her, the vine-leaves clustering from their 
arching trellis over the door behind, and the lazy white- 
sailed boats skimming along the sea that stretched before, 

1 And thus the slow and timid passions urged. 


ZANONI. 


25 


As she thus sat, rather in reverie than thought, a man 
coming from the direction of Posilipo, with a slow step 
and downcast eyes, passed close by the house, and Viola, 
looking up abruptly, started in a kind of terror as she 
recognized the stranger. She uttered an involuntary 
exclamation, and the cavalier turning, saw, and paused. 

He stood a moment or two between her and the sun- 
lit ocean, contemplating in a silence too serious and 
gentle for the boldness of gallantry, the blushing face 
and the young slight form before him; at length he 
spoke. 

“ Are you happy, my child, ” he said, in almost a 
paternal tone, “ at the career that lies before you 1 
From sixteen to thirty, the music in the breath of 
applause is sweeter than all the music your voice can 
utter ! ” 

“ I know not, ” replied Viola, falteringly, but encour- 
aged by the liquid softness of the accents that addressed 
her, — “I know not whether I am happy now, but I 
was last night. And I feel, too. Excellency, that I 
have you to thank, though, perhaps, you scarce know 
why ! ” 

“ You deceive yourself, ” said the cavalier, with a 
smile. “ I am aware that I assisted to your merited suc- 
cess, and it is you who scarce know how. The why I 
will tell you : because I saw in your heart a nobler ambi- 
tion than that of the woman’s vanity ; it was the daughter 
that interested me. Perhaps you would rather I should 
have admired the singer ? ” 

“ No ; oh, no ! ” 

“ Well, I believe you. And now, since we have 
thus met, I will pause to counsel you. When next 
you go to the theatre, you will have at your feet all the 
young gallants of Naples. Poor infant! the flame that 


26 


ZANONI. 


dazzles the eye can scorch the wing. Kemember that 
the only homage that does not sully must be that which 
these gallants will not give thee. And whatever thy 
dreams of the future, — and I see, while I speak to thee, 
how wandering they are, and wild, — may only those be 
fulfilled which centre round the hearth of home.” 

He paused, as Viola’s breast heaved beneath its robe. 
And with a burst of natural and innocent emotions, 
scarcely comprehending, though an Italian, the grave 
nature of his advice, she exclaimed, — 

“ Ah, Excellency, you cannot know how dear to me 
that home is already. And my father, — there would be 
no home, signor , without him ! ” 

A deep and melancholy shade settled over the face of 
the cavalier. He looked up at the quiet house buried 
amidst the vine-leaves, and turned again to the vivid, 
animated face of the young actress. 

“ It is well, ” said he. “ A simple heart may be its 
own best guide, and so, go on, and prosper. Adieu, 
fair singer.” 

“Adieu, Excellency; but,” and something she could 
not resist — an anxious, sickening feeling of fear and 
hope, — impelled her to the question, “ I shall see you 
again, shall I not, at San Carlo ? ” 

“ Hot, at least, for some time. I leave Naples to-day.” 
“ Indeed ! ” and Viola’s heart sank within her ; the 
poetry of the stage was gone. 

“ And, ” said the cavalier, turning back, and gently 
laying his hand on hers, — “and, perhaps, before ' we 
meet, you may have suffered: known the first sharp 
griefs of human life, — known how little what fame can 
gain, repays what the heart can lose ; but be brave and 
yield not, — not even to what may seem the piety of 
sorrow. Observe yon tree in your neighbor’s garden. 


ZANONI. 


27 


Look how it grows up, crooked and distorted. Some 
wind scattered the germ from which it sprang, in the 
clefts of the rock ; choked up and walled round by crags 
and buildings, by Nature and man, its life has been one 
struggle for the light, — light which makes to that life 
the necessity and the principle: you see how it has 
writhed and twisted; how, meeting the harrier in one 
spot, it has labored and worked, stem and branches, 
towards the clear skies at last. What has preserved it 
through each disfavor of birth and circumstances, — why 
are its leaves as green and fair as those of the vine 
behind you, which, with all its arms, can embrace the 
open sunshine ? My child, because of the very instinct 
that impelled the struggle, — because the labor for the 
light won to the light at length. So with a gallant 
heart, through every adverse accident of sorrow and of 
fate to turn to the sun, to strive for the heaven ; this it 
is that gives knowledge to the strong and happiness to 
the weak. Ere we meet again, you will turn sad and 
heavy eyes to those quiet houghs, and when you hear 
the birds sing from them, and see the sunshine come 
aslant from crag and housetop to be the playfellow of 
their leaves, learn the lesson that Nature teaches you, 
and strive through darkness to the light! ” 

As he spoke he moved on slowly, and left Viola won- 
dering, silent, saddened with his dim prophecy of coming 
evil, and yet, through sadness, charmed. Involuntarily 
her eyes followed him, — involuntarily she stretched 
forth her arms, as if by a gesture to call him back ; she 
would have given worlds to have seen him turn, — to 
have heard once more his low, calm, silvery voice; to 
have felt again the light touch of his hand on hers. As 
moonlight that softens into beauty every angle on which 
it falls, seemed his presence, — as moonlight vanishes. 


28 


ZANONI. 


and things assume their common aspect of the rugged 
and the mean, he receded from her eyes, and the out- 
ward scene was commonplace once more. 

The stranger passed on, through that long and lovely 
road which reaches at last the palaces that face the pub- 
lic gardens, and conducts to the more populous quarters 
of the city. 

A group of young, dissipated courtiers, loitering by 
the gateway of a house which was open for the favorite 
pastime of the day, — the resort of the wealthier and 
more high-born gamesters, — made way for him, as with 
a courteous inclination he passed them by. 

“ Per fede^ ” said one, “ is not that the rich Zanoni, 
of whom the town talks ? ” 

“ Ay ; they say his wealth is incalculable ! ” 

“ They say, — who are they ? — what is the authority ^ 
He has not been many days at Naples, and I cannot yet 
find any one who knows aught of his birthplace, his 
parentage, or, what is more important, his estates! ” 

“ That is true ; but he arrived in a goodly vessel, 
which they say is his own. See, — no, you cannot see 
it here; but it rides yonder in the bay. The bankers 
he deals with speak with awe of the sums placed in 
their hands. ” 

“ Whence came he ? ” 

“ From some seaport in the East. My valet learned 
from some of the sailors on the Mole that he had resided 
many years in the interior of India.” 

“ Ah, I am told that in India men pick up gold like 
pebbles, and that there are valleys where the birds build 
their nests with emeralds to attract the moths. Here 
comes our prince of gamesters, Cetoxa ; be sure that he 
already must have made acquaintance with so wealthy 
a cavalier; he has that attraction to gold which the mag 


ZANONI. 29 

net has to steel. Well, Cetoxa, what fresh news of the 
ducats of Signor Zanoni ? ” 

“ Oh, ” said Cetoxa, carelessly, “ my friend — ” 

Ha ! ha ! hear him ; his friend — ” 

“Yes; my friend Zanoni is going to Eome for a short 
time ; when he returns, he has promised me to fix a day 
to sup with me, and I will then introduce him to you, 
and to the best society of Naples! Diavolo! but he is a 
most agreeable and witty gentleman ! ” 

“Pray tell us bow you came so suddenly to be his 
friend.” 

“ My dear Belgioso, nothing more natural. He desired 
a box at San Carlo; but I need not tell you that the 
■expectation of a new opera (ah, how superb it is, — that 
poor devil, Pisani; who would have thought it?)' and a 
new singer (what a face, — what a voice! — ah!) had 
■engaged every corner of the house. I heard of Zanoni ’s 
desire to honor the talent of Naples, and, with my usual 
courtesy to distinguished strangers, I sent to place my 
box at his disposal. He accepts it, — I wait on him 
between the acts; he is most charming; he invites me to 
•supper. Cospetto, what a retinue! We sit late, — I tell 
him all the news of Naples ; we grow bosom friends ; he 
presses on me this diamond before we part, — it is a 
trifle, he tells me: the jewellers value it at 5000 pistoles! 
— the merriest evening I have passed these ten years. ” 
The cavaliers crowded round to admire the diamond. 

“ Signor Count Cetoxa, ” said one grave-looking sombre 
man, who had crossed himself two or three times during 
the Neapolitan’s narrative, “are you not aware of the 
strange reports about this person ; and are you not afraid 
to receive from him a gift which may carry with it the 
most fatal consequences ? Do you not know that he is 
«aid to be a sorcerer ; to possess the mal-occhio ; to — ” 


30 


Z AN ONI. 


“ Prithee, spare us your antiquated superstitions, ” 
interrupted Cetoxa, contemptuously. “ They are out of 
fashion ; nothing now goes down but scepticism and 
philosophy. And what, after all, do these rumors, when 
sifted, amount to? They have no origin but this, — a 
silly old man of eighty-six, quite in his dotage, solemnly 
avers that he saw this same Zanoni seventy years ago (he 
himself, the narrator, then a mere boy) at Milan; when 
this very Zanoni, as you all see, is at least as young as 
you or I, Belgioso.” 

“ But that,” said the grave gentleman, — “ that is the 
mystery. Old Avelli declares that Zanoni does not seem 
a day older than when they met at Milan. He says that 
even then at Milan — mark this — where, though under 
another name, this Zanoni appeared in the same splendor, 
he was attended also by the same mystery. And that an 
old man there remembered to have seen him sixty 3’'ears 
before, in Sweden.” 

“Tush,” returned Cetoxa, “ the same thing has been 
said of the quack Cagliostro, — mere fables. I will 
believe them when I see this diamond turn to a wisp of 
hay. Por the rest,” he added gravely, “I consider this 
illustrious gentleman my friend ; and a whisper against 
his honor and repute will in future be equivalent to an 
affront to myself.” 

Cetoxa was a redoubted swordsman, and excelled in a 
peculiarly awkward manoeuvre, which he himself had 
added to the variations of the stoccata. The grave 
gentleman, however anxious for the spiritual weal of the 
count, had an equal regard for his own corporeal safety. 
He contented himself with a look of compassion, and, 
turning through the gateway, ascended the stairs to the 
gaming-tables. 


ZANONI. 


81 


“ Ha, ha ! ” said Cetoxa, laughing, “ our good Loredano 
is envious of my diamond. Gentlemen, you sup with me 
to-night. I assure you I never met a more delightful, 
sociable, entertaining person, than my dear friend the 
Signor Zanoni.” 


32 


ZANOFI. 


CHAPTEK V. 

Quello Ippogifo, grande e strano augello 
Lo porta via. ^ 

Orl. Fur., c. vi. xviiL 

And now, accompanying this mysterious Zanoni, am I 
compelled to bid a short farewell to Naples. Mount 
behind me, — mount on my hippogriff, reader ; settle 
yourself at your ease. I bought the pillion the other day 
of a poet who loves his comfort ; it has been newly stuffed 
for your special accommodation. So, so, we ascend ! 
Look as we ride aloft, — look ! — never fear, hippogriffs 
never stumble ; and every hippogriff in Italy is warranted 
to carry elderly gentlemen, — look down On the gliding 
landscapes! There, near the ruins of the Oscan’s old 
Atella, rises Aversa, once the stronghold of the Norman ; 
there gleam the columns of Capua, above the Vulturnian 
Stream. Hail to ye, cornfields and vineyards famous for 
the old Falernian I Hail to ye, golden orange-groves of 
Mola di Gaeta! Hail to ye, sweet shrubs and wild 
flowers, omnis copia narium, that clothe the mountain- 
skirts of the silent Lautulas ! Shall we rest at the Volscian 
Anxur, — the modern Terracina, — where the lofty rock 
stands like the giant that guards the last borders of the 
southern land of love? Away, away! and hold your 
breath as we flit above the Pontine Marshes. Dreary and 
desolate, their miasma is to the gardens we have passed 
what the rank commonplace of life is to the heart when it 
has left love behind. Mournful Campagna, thou openest 

' That hippogriff, great and marvellous bird, bears him away. 


ZANONI. 


33 


on ns in majestic sadness. Home, seven-hilled Rome! 
receive us as Memory receives the way-worn ; receive us 
in silence, amidst mins! Where is the traveller we 
pursue? Turn the hippogrifF loose to graze: he loves the 
acanthus that wreathes round yon broken columns. 
Yes, that is the arch of Titus, the conqueror of Jerusalem, 
— that the Colosseum ! Through one passed the triumph 
of the deified invader; in one fell the butchered 
gladiators. Monuments of murder, how poor the thoughts, 
how mean the memories ye awaken, compared with those 
that speak to the heart of man on the heights of Phyle, or 
by thy lone mound, gray Marathon ! We stand amidst 
weeds and brambles and long waving herbage. * Where 
M^e stand reigned Nero, — here were his tessellated floors; 
here, 

“ Mighty in the heaven, a second heaven,” 

hung the vault of his ivory roofs; here, arch upon 
arch, pillar on pillar, glittered to the world the golden 
palace of its master, — the Golden House of Nero. How 
the lizard watches us with his bright, timorous eye! 
We disturb his reign. Gather that wild flov/er: the 
Golden House is vanished, but the wild flower may have 
kin to those which the stranger’s hand scattered over the 
tyrant’s grave; see, over this soil, the grave of Rome, 
Nature strews the wild flowers still! 

In the midst of this desolation is an old building of 
the middle ages. Here dwells a singular recluse. In 
the season of the malaria the native peasant flies the 
rank vegetation round; but he, a stranger and a for- 
eigner, breathes in safety the pestilential air. He has 
no friends, no associates, no companions, except books 
and instruments of science. He is often seen wandering 
over the grass-grown hills, or sauntering through the 
streets of the new city, not with the absent brow and 

3 


34 


ZANONI. 


incurious air of students, but with observant piercing 
eyes that seem to dive into the hearts of the passers-by. 
An old man, but not infirm, — erect and stately, as if in 
his prime. None know whether he be rich or poor. 
He asks no charity, and he gives none, — he does no 
evil, and seems to confer no good. He is a man who 
appears to have no world beyond himself; but appear- 
ances are deceitful, and Science, as well as Benevolence, 
lives in the Universe. This abode, for the first time 
since thus occupied, a visitor enters. It is Zanoni. 

You observe those two men seated together, convers- 
ing earnestly. Years long and many have flown away 
since they met last, — at least, bodily, and face to face. 
But if they are sages, thought can meet thought, and 
spirit spirit, though ctceans divide the forms. Death 
itself divides not the wise. Thou meetest Plato when 
thine eyes moisten over the Phaedo. May Homer live 
with all men forever! 

They converse ; they confess to each other ; they 
conjure up the past, and repeople it; but note how 
differently do such remembrances affect the two. On 
Zanoni’s face, despite its habitual calm, the emotions 
change and go. He has acted in the past he surveys; 
hut not a trace of the humanity that participates in joy 
and sorrow can be detected on the passionless visage of 
his companion; the past, to him, as is now the present, 
has been but as Nature to the sage, the volume to the 
student, — a calm and spiritual life, a study, a 
contemplation. 

From the past they turn to the future. Ah! at the 
close of the last century, the future seemed a thing tan- 
gible, — it was woven up in all men’s fears and hopes of 
the present. 

, At the verge of that hundred years, Man, the ripest 


ZANONL 


35 


born of Time,i stood as at the deathbed of the Old 
World, and beheld the New Orb, blood-red amidst 
cloud and vapor, — uncertain if a comet or a sun. 
Behold the icy and profound disdain on the brow of -the 
old man, — the lofty yet touching sadness that darkens 
the glorious countenance of Zanoni. Is it that one 
views with contempt the struggle and its issue, and the 
other with awe or pity? Wisdom contemplating man- 
kind leads but to the two results, — compassion or dis- 
dain. He who believes in other worlds can accustom 
himself to look on this as the naturalist on the ‘revolu- 
tions of an ant-hill, or of a leaf. What is the Earth 
to Infinity, — what its duration to the Eternal? Oh, 
how much greater is the soul of one man than the vicis- 
situdes of the whole globe! Child of heaven, and heir 
of immortality, how from some star hereafter wilt thou 
look back on the ant-hill and its commotions, from 
Clovis to Kobespierre, from Noah to the Final Fire. 
The spirit that can contemplate, that lives only in the 
intellect, can ascend to its star, even from the midst of 
the burial-ground called Earth, and while the sarcopha- 
gus called Life immures in its clay the everlasting! 

But thou, Zanoni, — thou hast refused to live only in 
the intellect; thou hast not mortified the heart; thy 
pulse still beats with the sweet music of mortal passion; 
thy kind is to thee still something warmer than an 
abstraction, — thou wouldst look upon this Bevolution 
in its cradle, which the storms rock; thou wouldst see 
the world while its elements yet struggle through the 
chaos ! 

Go! 

' ' 1 " An des Jahrhunderts Neige, 

Der reifste Sohn der Zeit.” 

Die Kiinstler. 


36 


Z AN ONI. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Precepteurs ignorans de ce faible universA — Voltaire. 

Nous etions a table chez un de nos confreres a I’Academie, 
Grand Seigneur et homme d’esprit.'^ — La Harpe. 

One evening, at Paris, several months after the date of 
our last chapter, there was a reunion of some of the most, 
eminent wits of the time, at the house of a personage dis- 
tinguished alike by noble birth and liberal accomplish- 
ments. Nearly all present were of the views that were 
then the mode. For, as came afterwards a time when 
nothing was so unpopular as the people, so that was the 
time when nothing was so vulgar as aristocracy. The 
airiest fine gentleman and the haughtiest noble prated 
of equality, and lisped enlightenment. 

Among the more remarkable guests were Condorcet,. 
then in the prime of his reputation, the correspondent 
of the king of Prussia, the intimate of Voltaire, the 
member of half the academies of Europe, — noble by 
birth, polished in manners, republican in opinions. 
There, too, was the venerable Malesherbes, “ 1 ’amour 
et les delices de la Nation.” ® There Jean Silvain 
Bailly, the accomplished scholar, — the aspiring politi- 
cian. It was one of those petits soupers for which the 
capital of all social pleasures was so renowned. The 
conversation, as might be expected, was literary and 

^ Ignorant teachers of this weak world. 

2 We supped with one of our confreres of the Academy, — a great 
nobleman and wit. 

3 The idol and delight of the nation (so called by his historian.. 
Gaillard). 


ZANONI. 


37 


intellectual, enlivened by graceful pleasantry. Many 
of the ladies of that ancient and proud noblesse — for the 
noblesse yet existed, though its hours were already num- 
bered — added to the charm of the society ; and theirs 
were the boldest criticisms, and often the most liberal 
sentiments. 

Vain labor for me — vain labor almost for the grave 
English language — to do justice to the sparkling para- 
doxes that flew from lip to lip. The favorite theme was 
the superiority of the moderns to the ancients. Con- 
dorcet on this head was eloquent, and to some, at least, 
of his audience, most convincing. That Voltaire was 
greater than Homer few there were disposed to deny. 
Keen was the ridicule lavished on the dull pedantry 
which finds everything ancient necessarily sublime. 

^ Yet,” said the graceful Marquis de , as the 

champagne danced to his glass, “ more ridiculous still is 
the superstition that finds everything incomprehensible 
holy! But intelligence circulates, Condorcet; like 
water, it finds its level. My hairdresser said to me 
this morning, ‘ Though I am but a poor fellow, I believe 
as little as the finest gentleman ! ’ ” 

" Unquestionably, the great Revolution draws nea*? 
to its final completion, — a pas de giant ^ as Montes- 
quieu said of his own immortal work.” 

Then there rushed from all — wit and noble, courtier 
and republican — a confused chorus, harmonious only 
in its anticipation of the briljiant things to which “ the 
great Revolution ” was to give birth. Here Condorcet 
is more eloquent than before. 

“ II faut absolument que la Superstition et le Fana- 
tisme fassent place a la Philosophie.^ Kings persecute 
1 It must necessarily happen that superstition and fanaticism 
give place to philosophy. 


38 


ZANONI. 


persons, priests opinion. Without kings, men must be 
safe; and without priests, minds must be free.” 

“Ah,” murmured the marquis, “and as ce cher 
Diderot has so well sung, — 

‘ Et des boyaux du dernier pretre 
Serrez le cou du dernier roi.’ ** ^ 

“ And then,” resumed Condorcet, — “ then commences 
the Age of Eeasoii! — equality in instruction, equality 
in institutions, equality in wealth! The great impedi- 
ments to knowledge are, first, the want of a common 
language; and next, the short duration of existence. 
But as to the first, when all men are brothers, why not 
a universal language As to the second, the organic 
perfectibility of the vegetable world is undisputed, is 
Nature less powerful in the nobler existence of thinking 
man? The very destruction of the two most active 
causes of physical deterioration — here, luxurious 
wealth; there, abject penury, — must necessarily pro- 
long the general term of life.^ The art of medicine 
will then be honored in the place of war, which is the 
art of murder: the noblest study of the acutest minds 
will be devoted to the discovery and arrest of the causes 
of disease. Life, I grant, cannot be made eternal; but 
it may be prolonged almost indefinitely. And as the 
meaner animal bequeaths its vigor to its offspring, so 
man shall transmit his improved organization, mental 
and physical, to his sons. Oh, yes, to such a consum- 
mation does our age approach ! ” 

The venerable Malesherhes sighed. Perhaps he 
feared the consummation might not come in time for 

1 And throttle the neck of the last king with the string from the 
bowels of the last priest. 

2 See Condorcet’s posthumous work on the Progress of the 
Human Mind. — Ed. 


ZANONI. 


39 


him. The handsome Marquis de and the ladies, 

yet handsomer than he, looked conviction and delight. 

But two men there were, seated next to each other, 
who joined not in the general talk: the one a stranger 
newly arrived in Paris, where his wealth, his person, 
and his accomplishments, had already made him 
remarked and courted; the other, an old man, some- 
where about seventy, — the witty and virtuous, brave, 
and still light-hearted Cazotte, the author of “ Le Diable 
Amoureux.” 

These two conversed familiarly, and apart from the 
rest, and only by an occasional smile testified their 
attention to the general conversation. 

“Yes,” said the stranger, — “ yeS| we have met 
before.” 

“ I thought I could not forget your countenance ; yet 
I task in vain my recollections of the past. ” 

“I will* assist you. Eecall the time when, led by 
curiosity, or perhaps the nobler desire of knowledge, 
you sought initiation into the mysterious order of 
Martines de Pasqualis. ” ^ 

1 It is so recorded of Cazotte. Of Martines de Pasqualis little is 
known ; even the country to which he belonged is matter of conjec- 
ture. Equally so the rites, ceremonies, and nature of the cabalistic 
order he established. St. Martin was a disciple of the school, and 
that, at least, is in its favor ; for in spite of his mysticism, no man 
more beneficent, generous, pure, and virtuous than St. Martin 
adorned the last century. Above all, no man more distinguished 
himself from the herd of sceptical philosophers by the gallantry 
and fervor with which he combated materialism, and vindicated 
the necessity of faith amidst a chaos of Unbelief. It may also be 
observed, that Cazotte, whatever else he learned of the brother- 
hood of Martines, learned nothing that diminished the excellence 
of his life and the sincerity of his religion. At once gentle and 
brave, he never ceased to oppose the excesses of the Kevolution, 
To the last, tinlike the Liberals of his time, he was a devout and 


40 


ZANONI. 


“Ah, is it possible! You are one of that theurgic 
brotherhood ? ” 

“ Nay, I attended their ceremonies but to see how 
vainly they sought to revive the ancient marvels of 
the cabala.” 

“ Such studies please you ? I have shaken off the 
influence they once had on my own imagination.” 

“ You have not shaken it off,” returned the stranger, 
gravely; “ it is on you still, — on you at this hour; it 
beats in your heart; it kindles in your reason; it will 
speak in your tongue! ” 

And then, with a yet lower voice, the stranger con- 
tinued to address him, to remind him of certain cere- 
monies and doctrines, — to explain and enforce them by 
references to the actual experience and history of his 
listener, which Cazotte thrilled to find so familiar to a 
stranger. 

Gradually the old man’s pleasing and benevolent 
countenance grew overcast, and he turned, from time 
to time, searching, curious, uneasy glances towards his 
companion. 

The charming Duchesse de G archly pointed out 

to the lively guests the abstracted air and clouded brow 
of the poet; and Condorcet, who liked no one else to be 
remarked, when he himself was present, said to Cazotte, 
“ Well, and what do you predict of the Revolution, — 
how, at least, will it affect us? ” 

At that question Cazotte started; his ckeeks grew 

sincere Christian. Before his execution, he demanded a pen and 
paper to write these words : “ Ma femme, mes enfans, ne me 
pleurez pas; ne m’oubliez pas, mais souvenez-vous surtout de ne 
jamais offenser Dieu.” ® — Ed. 

“ My wife, my children, weep not for me , forget me not, but remember abore 
rrerything never to offend God. 


ZANONI. 41 

pale, large drops stood on his forehead; his lips writhed; 
his gay companions gazed on him in surprise. 

“Speak!” whispered the stranger, laying his hand 
gently upon the arm of the old wit. 

At that word Cazotte’s face grew locked and rigid, his 
eyes dwelt vacantly on space, and in a low, hollow 
voice, he thus answered,^ — 

“ You ask how it will affect yourselves, — you, its 
most learned, and its least selfish agents. I will answer: 
you, Marquis de Condorcet, will die in prison, hut not 
by the hand of the executioner. In the peaceful hap- 
piness of that day, the philosopher will carry about with 
him not the elixir hut the poison.” 

“My poor Cazotte,” said Condorcet, with his gentle 
smile, “what have prisons, executioners, and poison 
to do with an age of liberty and brotherhood ? ” 

“ It is in the names of Liberty and Brotherhood 
that the prisons will reek, and the headsman be 
glutted. ” 

“ You are thinking of priestcraft, not philosophy, 
Cazotte,” said Champfort.^ “ And what of me ? ” 

1 The following prophecy (not unfamiliar, perhaps, to some of 
my readers), with some slight variations, and at greater length, in 
the text of the authority I am about to cite, is to be found in La 
Harpe’s posthumous works. The MS. is said to exist still in La 
Harpe’s handwriting, and the story is given on M. Petitot’s author- 
ity, vol. i. p. 62. It is not for me to inquire if there b6 doubts of 
its foundation on fact. — Ed. 

Champfort, one of those men of letters who, though misled by 
the first fair show of the Revolution, refused to follow the baser 
men of action into its horrible excesses, lived to express the mur 
derous philanthropy of its agents by the best bon mot of the time. 
Seeing written on the walls, “ Eraternite ou la Mort,” he observed 
that the sentiment should be translated thus, “ Sois mon frere, on 
je te tue.’^ “ 

« “ Be my brother, or I kill thee.” 


42 


ZANONL 


“ You will open your own veins to escape the frater- 
nity of Cain. Be comforted; the last drops will not 
follow the razor. For you, venerable Malesherbes; for 
you, Aimar Nicolai; for you, learned Bailly, — I see 
them dress the scaffold! And all the while, O great 
philosophers, your murderers will have no word but 
philosophy on their lips! ” 

The hush was complete and universal when the pupil 
of Voltaire — the prince of the academic sceptics, hot 
La Harpe — cried with a sarcastic laugh, “ Do not flatter 
me, 0 prophet, by exemption from the fate of my com- 
panions. Shall I have no part to play in this drama of 
your fantasies.” 

At this question, Cazotte’s countenance lost its unnat- 
ural expression of awe and sternness; the sardonic 
humor most common to it came back and played in his 
brightening eyes. 

“Yes, La Harpe, the most wonderful part of all! 
You will become — a Christian ! ” 

This was too much for the audience that a moment 
before seemed grave and thoughtful, and they burst into 
an immoderate fit of laughter, while Cazotte, as if 
exhausted by his predictions, sank back in his chair, 
and breathed hard and heavily. 

“ Nay,” said Madame de G , “ you who have pre- 

dicted such grave things concerning us, must prophesy 
something also about yourself. ” 

A convulsive tremor shook the involuntary prophet, 
— it passed, and left his countenance elevated by an 
expression of resignation and calm. “Madame,” said 
he, after a long pause, “ during the siege of Jerusalem, 
we are told by its historian that a man, for seven suc- 
cessive days, went round- the ramparts, exclaiming. 
Woe to thee, Jerusalem, — > woe to myself! ’ ” 


ZANONI. 


43 


‘'Well, Cazotte, welU ” 

" And on the seventh day, while he thus spoke, a 
stone from the machines of the Eomans dashed him into 
atoms! ” 

With these words, Cazotte rose; and the guests, awed 
in spite of themselves, shortly afterwards broke up and 
retired. 


44 


ZANONL 


CHAPTER VII. 

Qui done t’a donne la mission s’annoncer an peuple que la divinity 
u’existe pas ? Quel avantage trouves-tu a persuader a I’homme 
qu’une force aveugle preside a ses destinees et frappe au hasard 
le crime et la vertu 1 ^ — Robespierre, Discours, Mai 7, 1794. 

It was some time before midnight when the stranger 
returned home. His apartments were situated in one of 
those vast abodes which may be called an epitome of 
Paris itself, — the cellars rented by mechanics, scarcely 
removed a step from paupers, often by outcasts and 
fugitives from the law, often by some daring writer, 
who, after scattering amongst the people doctrines the 
most subversive of order, or the most libellous on 
the characters of priest, minister, and king, retired 
amongst the rats, to escape the persecution that attends 
the virtuous; the ground-floor occupied by shops; the 
entresol by artists ; the principal stories by nobles ; and 
the garrets by journeymen or grisettes. 

As the stranger passed up the stairs , a young man of a 
form and countenance singularly unprepossessing emerged 
from a door in the entresol^ and brushed beside him. 
His glance was furtive, sinister, savage, and yet timor- 
ous; the many's face was of an ashen paleness, and the 
features worked convulsively. The stranger paused, 
and observed him with thoughtful looks, as he hurried 

1 Who then invested you with the mission to announce to the 
people that there is no God ? What advantage find you in per- 
suading man that nothing but blind force presides over his 
destinies, and strikes haphazard both crime and virtue % 


?:AN0NI. 


45 


down the stairs. While he thus stood, he heard a 
groan from the room which the young man had just 
quitted; the latter had pulled to the door with hasty 
vehemence, hut some fragment, probably of fuel, had 
prevented its closing, and it now stood slightly ajar;, 
the stranger pushed it open and entered. He passed a 
small anteroom, meanly furnished, and stood in a bed- 
chamber of meagre and sordid discomfort. Stretched on 
the bed, and writhing in pain, lay an old man ; a single 
candle lit the room, and threw its feeble ray over the 
furrowed and death-like face of the sick person. No at- 
tendant was by ; he seemed left alone, to breathe his last. 
“Water,” he moaned feebly, — “water: I parch, — I 
burn! ” The intruder approached the bed, bent over 
him, and took his hand. “ Oh, bless thee, Jean, bless 
thee ! ” said the sufferer ; “ hast thou brought back the 
physician already ? Sir, I am poor, but I can pay you 
well. I would not die yet, for that young man’s sake.” 
And he sat upright in his bed, and fixed his dim eyes 
anxiously on his visitor. 

“ What are your symptoms, your disease ? ” 

“ Fire, fire, fire in the heart, the entrails: I burn! ” 

“ How long is it since you have taken food? ” 

“Food! only this broth. There is the basin, all I 
have taken these six hours. I had scarce drunk it ere 
these pains began.” 

The stranger looked at the basin ; some portion of the 
contents was yet left there. 

“ Who administered this to you ? ” 

“Who? Jean! Who else should? I have no 
servant, — none! lam poor, very poor, sir. But not 
you physicians do not care for the poor. I am rich ! 
can you cure me ? ” 

“ Yes, if Heaven permit. Wait but a few moments.” 


46 


ZANOWT. 


The old man was fast sinking under the rapid effects 
of poison. The stranger repaired to his own apartments, 
and returned in a few moments with some preparation 
that had the instant result of an antidote. The pain 
ceased, the blue and livid color receded from the lips; 
the old man fell into a profound sleep. The stranger 
drew the curtains round the bed, took up the light, and 
inspected the apartment; The walls of both rooms were 
hung with drawings of masterly excellence. A port- 
folio was filled with sketches of equal skill, — but these 
last were mostly subjects that appalled the eye and 
revolted the taste : they displayed the human figure in 
every variety of suffering, — the rack, the wheel, the 
gibbet; all that cruelty has invented to sharpen the 
pangs of death seemed yet more dreadful from the 
passionate gusto and earnest force of the designer. 
And some of the countenances of those thus delineated 
were sufficiently removed from the ideal to show that 
they were portraits; in a large, bold, irregular hand was 
written beneath these drawings, “ The Future of the 
Aristocrats.” In a corner of the room, and close by an 
old bureau, was a small bundle, over which, as if to hide 
it, a cloak was thrown carelessly. Several shelves 
were filled with books; these were almost entirely the 
works of the philosophers of the time, — the philoso- 
phers of the material school, especially the Encyclope- 
distes, whom Fobespierre afterwards so singularly 
attacked when the coward deemed it unsafe to leave his 
reign without a God.^ A volume lay on a table, — it 

1 “Cette secte (les Encyclopedistes) propagea avec beaucoup de 
zele Popinion du materialisme, qui preValut panni les grands et 
parmi les beaux esprits ; ou lui doit eu partie cette espece de phi- 
losophie pratique qui, reduisant I’Egoisme en sjstenie, regarde la 
socie'te humaine comme uue guerre de ruse, le succes comme la 


ZANONI. 


47 


was one of Voltaire, and the page was opened at his 
argumentative assertion of the existence of the Supreme 
Being4 The margin was covered with pencilled notes, 
in the stiff hut tremulous hand of old age ; all in attempt 
to refute or to ridicule the logic of the sage of Ferney : 
Voltaire did not go far enough for the annotator! The 
clock struck two, when the sound of steps was heard 
without. The stranger silently seated himself on the 
farther side of the bed, and its drapery screened him, as 
he sat, from the eyes of a man who now entered on 
tiptoe ; it was the same person who had passed him on 
the stairs. The new-comer took up the candle and 
approached the bed. The old man’s face was turned to 
the pillow; but he lay so still, and his breathing was so 
inaudible, that his sleep might well, by that hasty, 
shrinking, guilty glance, be mistaken for the repose of 
death. The new-comer drew back, and a grim smile 
passed over his face : he replaced the candle on the 
table, opened the bureau with a key which he took from 
his pocket, and loaded himself with several rouleaus of 
gold that he found in the drawers. At this time the 
old man began to wake. He stirred, he looked up; he 
turned his eyes towards the light now waning in its 
socket; he saw the robber at his work; he sat erect for 
an instant, as if transfixed, more even by astonishment 
than terror. At last he sprang from his bed. 

regie du juste et de Tinjuste, la probite comme une affaire de gout, 
ou de bienseance, le monde comme le patrimoine des fripons 
adroits.”® — Discours de Robespierre, Mai 7, 1794. 

1 “Histoire de Jenni.” 

a , This sect (the Encyclopaedists) propagate with much zeal the doctrine of 
materialism, which prevails among the great and the wits ; we owe to it partly 
that kind of practical philosophy which, reducing Egotism to a system, looks 
upon society as a war of cunning ; success the rule of right and wrong, honesty 
as an affair of taste or decency : and the world as the patrimony of clever 
scoundrels. 


48 


ZANONI. 


“Just Heaven! do I dream! Thou — thou — thou, 
for whom I toiled and starved! — Thou ! 

The robber started; the gold fell from his hand, and 
rolled on the floor. 

“ What! ” he said, “art thou not dead yet? Has the 
poison failed ? ” 

“ Poison, boy ! Ah ! ” shrieked the old man , and 
covered his face with his hands; then, with sudden 
energy, he exclaimed, “Jean! Jean! recall that word. 
Rob, plunder me if thou wilt, but do not say thou 
couldst murder one who only lived for thee! There, 
there, take the gold'; I hoarded it but for thee. Go! 
go! ” and the old man, who in his passion had quitted his 
bed, fell at the feet of the foiled assassin, and writhed 
on the ground , — the mental agony more intolerable than 
that of the body, which he had so lately undergone. 
The robber looked at him with a hard disdain. 

“ What have I ever done to thee, wretch ? ” cried 
the old man, — “ what but loved and cherished thee ? 
Thou wert an orphan, — an outcast. I nurtured, nursed, 
adopted thee as my son. If men call me a miser, it was 
but that none might despise thee, my heir, because. 
Nature has stunted and deformed thee, when I was no 
more. Thou wouldst have had all when I was dead. 
Couldst thou not spare me a few months or days, — 
nothing to thy youth , all that is left to my age ? What 
have I done to thee ? ” 

“ Thou hast continued to live, and thou wouldst make 
no will.” 

“ Mon Dieu ! Mon Dieu ! ” 

Ton Dieu! Thy God! Pool! Hast thou not 
told me, from my childhood, that there is no God? 
Hast thou not fed me on philosophy? Hast thou not 
said, ‘Be virtuous, be good, be just, for the sake of 


ZANONI. 


49 


mankind: but there is no life after this life’? Man- 
kind! why should I love mankind? Hideous and 
misshapen, mankind jeer at me as I pass the streets. 
What hast thou done to me ? Thou hast taken away 
from me, who am the scoff of this world, the hopes of 
another ! Is there no other life ? Well, then, I want thy 
gold, that at least I may hasten to make the best of this ! ” 

“ Monster 1 Curses light on thy ingratitude, thy — ” 

“ And who hears thy curses ? Thou knowest there 
is no God ! Mark me ; I have prepared all to fly. See, 

— I have my passport ; my horses wait without ; relays 
are ordered. I have thy gold.” (And the wretch, as 
he spoke, continued coldly to load his person with the 
rouleaus). “ And now, if I spare thy life, how shall I 
be sure that thou wilt not inform against mine ? ” He 
advanced with a gloomy scowl and a menacing gesture 
as he spoke. 

The old man’s anger changed to fear. He cowered 
before the savage. “ Let me live ! let me live ! — that 

— that — ” 

“ That — what ? ” 

I may pardon thee! Yes, thou hast nothing to fear 
from me. I swear it! ” 

“ Swear! But by whom and what, old man? I can- 
not believe thee, if thou believest not in any God! Ha, 
ha ! behold the result of thy lessons. ” 

Another moment and those murderous fingers would 
have strangled their prey. But between the assassin 
and his victim rose a form that seemed almost to both 
a visitor from the world that both denied, — stately with 
majestic strength, glorious with awful beauty. 

The ruffian recoiled, looked, trembled, and then 
turned and fled from the chamber. The old man fell 
again to the ground insensible. 

4 


50 


ZANONI. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

To know how a bad man will act when in power, reverse all the 
doctrines he preaches when obscure. — S. Montague. 

Antipathies also form a part of magic ( falsely ) so called. Man 
naturally has the same instinct as the animals, which warns 
them involuntarily against the creatures that are hostile or fatal 
to their existence. But he so often neglects it, that it becomes 
dormant. Not so the true cultivator of the Great Science, etc. 
^ Trismegistus the Fourth ( a Rosicrucian ). 

When he again saw the old man the next day, the 
stranger found him calm, and surprisingly recovered 
from the scene and sufferings of the night. He expressed 
his gratitude to his preserver with tearful fervor, and 
stated that he had already sent for a relation who would 
make arrangements for his future safety and mode of 
life. “For I have money yet left,” said the old man; 
“ and henceforth have no motive to be a miser. ” He 
proceeded then briefly to relate the origin and circum’ 
stances of his connection with his intended murderer. 

It seems that in earlier life he had quarrelled with his 
relations, — from a difference in opinions of belief. Reject- 
ing all religion as a fable, he yet cultivated feelings that 
inclined him — for though his intellect was weak, his 
dispositions were good — to that false and exaggerated 
sensibility which its dupes so often mistake for benevo- 
lence. .He had no children; he resolved to adopt an 
enfant du 'peuple. He resolved to educate this hoy 
according to “ reason. ” He selected an orphan of the 
lowest extraction, whose defects of person and constitur 


Z AN ONI. 


51 


tion only yet the more moved his pity, and finally 
engrossed his affection. In this outcast he not only 
loved a son, he loved a theory! He brought him up 
most philosophically. Helvetius had proved to him that 
education can do all ; and before he was eight years old, 
the little Jean’s favorite expressions were, “ La lumiere 
et la vertu”^ The boy showed talents, especially in 
art. The protector sought for a master who was as free 
from “ superstition ” as himself, and selected the painter 
David. That person, as hideous as his pupil, and whose 
dispositions were as vicious as his professional abilities 
were undeniable, was certainly as free from “ supersti- 
tion ” as the protector could desire. It was reserved 
for Robespierre hereafter to make the sanguinary painter 
believe in the Eire Supreme. The boy was early sensi- 
ble of his ugliness, which was almost preternatural. 
His benefactor found it in vain to reconcile him to the 
malice of Xature by his philosophical aphorism.s; but 
when he pointed out to him that in this world money, 
like charity, covers a multitude of defects, the boy 
listened eagerly and was consoled. To save money for 
protegey — for the only thing in the world he loved, 
— this became the patron’s passion. Verily, he had 
met with his reward. 

“But I am thankful he has escaped,” said the old 
man, wiping his eyes. “Had he left me a beggar, I 
could never have accused him.” 

“ No, for you are the author of his crimes.” 

“ How ! I, who never ceased to inculcate the beauty 
of virtue 1 Explain yourself. ” 

“Alas! if thy pupil did not make this clear to thee 
last night from his own lips, an angel might come from 
heaven to preach to thee in vain.” 

1 Light and virtue. 


52 


ZANONI. 


The old man moved uneasily , and was about to reply, 
when the relative he had sent for — and who, a native 
of Nancy, happened to be at Paris at the time — entered 
the room. He was a man somewhat past thirty, and 
of a dry, saturnine, meagre countenance, restless eyes, 
and compressed lips. He listened, with many ejacula- 
tions of horror, to his relation’s recital, and sought 
earnestly, but in vain, to induce him to give informa- 
tion against his 'protege. 

“ Tush, tush, E-ene Dumas! ” said the old man, “ you 
are a lawyer. You are bred to regard human life with 
contempt. Let any man break a law, and you shout, 
‘ Execute him! " ” 

“I! ” cried Dumas, lifting up his hands and eyes: 
“ venerable sage, how you misjudge me! I lament more 
than any one the severity of our code. I think the 
state never should take away life, — no, not even the 
life of a murderer. I agree with that young statesman, 
— Maximilian Robespierre, — that the executioner is 
the invention of the tyrant. My very attachment to 
our advancing revolution is, that it must sweep away 
this legal butchery.” 

The lawyer paused, out of breath. The stranger 
regarded him fixedly and turned pale. 

•‘You change countenance, sir,” said Dumas; “you 
do not agree with me.” 

“ Pardon me, I was at that moment repressing a vague 
fear which seemed prophetic. ” 

“ And that — ” 

“ Was that we should meet again, when your opinions 
on Death and the philosophy of Revolutions might be 
different. ” 

“ Never! ” 

You enchant me, Cousin Rene,” said the old mao. 


ZANONI. 


00 


who had listened to his relation with delight. Ah, I 
see you have proper sentiments of justice and philan- 
thropy. Why did I not seek to know you before? 
You admire the Kevolution; you, equally with me,, 
detest the barbarity of kings and the fraud of priests ? ” 
“Detest! How could I love mankind if I did 
not? ” 

“And,” said the old man, hesitatingly, “you do not 
think, with this noble gentleman, that I erred in the 
precepts I instilled into that wretched man ? ” 

“Erred!* Was Socrates to blame if Alcibiades was 
an adulterer and a traitor ? ” 

“You hear him, you hear him! But Socrates had 
also a Plato ; henceforth you shall be a Plato to me. 
You hear him?” exclaimed the old man, turning to 
the stranger. 

But the latter was at the threshold. Who shall 
argue with the most stubborn of all bigotries, — the 
fanaticism of unbelief ? 

“Are you going? ” exclaimed Dumas, “and before I 
have thanked you, blessed you, for the life of this dear 
and venerable man ? Oh , if ever I can repay you, — if 
ever you want the heart’s blood of Bene Dumas! ” 
Thus volubly delivering himself, he followed the stran- 
ger to the threshold of the second chamber, and there, 
gently detaining him, and after looking over his shoul- 
der, to be sure that he was not heard by the owner, he 
whispered, “ I ought to return to Xancy. One would 
not lose one’s time, — you don’t think, sir, that that 
scoundrel took away all the old fool’s money ? ” 

“ Was it thus Plato spoke of Socrates, Monsieur 
Dumas ? ” 

“ Ha, ha! — you are caustic. Well, you have a right. 
Sir, we shall meet again.” 


54 


ZANONI, 


“ Again! ” muttered the stranger, and his brow dark- 
ened. He hastened to his chamber; he passed the day 
and the night alone, and in studies, no matter of what 
nature, — they served to increase his gloom. 

What could ever connect his fate with H4ne Dumas, 
or the fugitive assassin ? Why did the buoyant air of 
Paris seem to him heavy with the steams of blood; 
why did an instinct urge him to fly from those sparkling 
circles, from that focus of the world’s awakened hopes, 
warning him from return? — he, whose lofty existence 
defied — but away these dreams and omens ! He leaves 
France behind. Back, 0 Italy, to thy majestic wrecks! 
On the Alps his soul breathes the free air once more. 
Free air! Alas! let the world-healers exhaust their 
chemistry; man never shall he as free in the market- 
place as on the mountain. But we, reader, we too escape 
from these scenes of false wisdom clothing godless crime. 
Away, once more 

“ In den heitern Regionen 
Wo die reinen Forinen wohnen.” 

Away, to the loftier realm where the pure dwellers are. 
Unpolluted by the Actual, the Ideal lives only with Art 
and Beauty. Sweet Viola, by the shores of the blue 
Parthenope, by Virgil’s tomb, and the Cimmerian 
cavern, we return to thee once more. 


ZANONI. 


55 


CHAPTER IX. 

Che non vuol che ’1 destrier piu vada in alto, 

Poi lo lega nel margine marino 
A un verde mirto in mezzo un lauro e un pino.^ 

Orl. F ur., c. vi. xxiii. 

O musician! art thou happy now? Thou art rein* 
stalled at thy stately desk, — thy faithful barbiton has 
its share in the triumph. It is thy n||sterpiece which 
fills thy ear; it is thy daughter who fills the scene, — 
the music, the actress so united, that applause to one is 
applause to both. They make way for thee, at the 
orchestra, — they no longer jeer and wink, when, with 
a fierce fondness, thou dost caress thy Familiar, that 
plains, and wails, and chides, and growls, under thy 
remorseless hand. They understand now how irregular 
is ever the symmetry of real genius. The inequalities 
in its surface make the moon luminous to man. Gio- 
vanni Paisiello, Maestro di Capella, if thy gentle soul 
could know envy, thou must sicken to see thy Elfrida 
and thy Pirro laid aside, and all Naples turned fanatic 
to the Siren, at whose measures shook querulously thy 
gentle headl But thou, Paisiello, calm in the long 
prosperity of fame, knowest that the New will have its 
day, and comfortest thyself that the Elfrida and the 
Pirro will live forever. Perhaps a mistake, hut it it 

I As he did not wish that his charger (the hippogriff) should 
take any further excursions into the higher regions for the present, 
he bound him at the sea-shore to a green myrtle between a laurel 
and a pine 


56 


ZANONI. 


by such mistakes that true genius conquers envy. “ To 
be immortal,” says Schiller, “live in the whole.” To 
be superior to the hour, live in thy self-esteem. The 
audience now would give their ears for those variations 
and flights they were once wont to hiss. No! — Pisani 
has been two-thirds of a life at silent work on his mas- 
terpiece : there is nothing he can add to that, however 
he might have sought to improve on the masterpieces of 
others. Is not this common? The least little critic, 
in reviewing some work of art, will say, “ pity this, and 
pity that;” “this should have been altered, — that 
omitted.” Yea, with his wiry fiddlestring will he creak 
out his accursed yariations. But let him sit down and 
compose himself. He sees no improvement in varia- 
tions then ! Every man can control his fiddle when it is 
his own work with which its vagaries would play the 
devil. 

And Viola is the idol, the theme of Naples. She is 
the spoiled sultana of the boards. To spoil her acting 
may be easy enough, — shall they spoil her nature? 
No, I think not. There, at home, she is still good and 
simple; and there, under the awning by the doorway, — 
there she still sits, divinely musing. How often, crook- 
trunked tree, she looks to thy green boughs;^ how often, 
like thee, in her dreams, and fancies, does she struggle 
for the light, — not the light of the stage-lamps. Pooh, 
child! be contented with the lamps, even with the rush- 
lights. A farthing candle is more convenient for house- 
hold purposes than the stars. 

Weeks passed, and the stranger did not reappear; 
months had passed, and his prophecy of sorrow was not 
yet fulfilled. One evening Pisani was taken ill. His 
success had brought on the long-neglected composer 
pressing applications for concerti and sonata, adapted to 


ZANONI. 


57 


his more peculiar science on the violin. He had been 
employed for some weeks, day and night, on a piece in 
which he hoped to excel himself. He took, as usual, 
one of those seemingly impracticable subjects which it 
was his pride to subject to the expressive powers of his 
art, — ■ the terrible legend connected with the transforma- 
tion of Philomel. The pantomime of sound opened 
with the gay merriment of a feast. The monarch of 
Thrace is at his banquet; a sudden discord brays 
through the joyous notes, — the string seems to screech 
with horror. The king learns the murder of his son by 
the hands of the avenging sisters. Swift rage the chords, 
through the passions of fear, of horror, of fury, and dis- 
may. The father pursues the sisters. Hark! what 
changes the dread — the discord — into that long, silvery, 
mournful music? The transformation is completed; 
and Philomel, now the nightingale, pours from the 
myrtle-bough the full, liquid, subduing notes that are 
to tell evermore to the world the history of her woes and 
wrongs. Now, it was in the midst of this complicated 
and difficult attempt that the health of the over-tasked 
musician, excited alike by past triumph and new ambi- 
tion, suddenly gave way. He was taken ill at night. 
The next morning the doctor pronounced that his disease 
was a malignant and infectious fever. His wife and 
Viola shared in their tender watch; but soon that task 
was left to the last alone. The Signora Pisani caught 
the infection, and in a few hours was even in a state 
more alarming than that of her husband. The Neapol- 
itans, in common with the inhabitants of all warm 
climates, are apt to become selfish and brutal in their 
dread of infectious disorders. Gionetta herself pre- 
tended to be ill, to avoid the sick-chamber. The whole 
labor of love and sorrow fell on Viola. It was a terrible 


58 


ZANONI. 


trial, — I am willing to hurry over the details. The 
wife died first! 

One day, a little before sunset, Pisani woke partially 
recovered from the delirium which had preyed upon 
him, with few intervals, since the second day of the dis- 
ease; and casting about him his dizzy and feeble eyes, 
he recognized Viola, and smiled. He faltered her name 
as he rose and stretched his arms. She fell upon his 
breast, and strove to suppress her tears. 

“ Thy mother ? ” he said. “ Does she sleep ? ” 

“ She sleeps, — ah, yes ! ” and the tears gushed 
forth. 

“ I thought — eh ! I know not what I have thought. 
But do not weep: I shall be well now, — quite well. 
She will come to me when she wakes, — will she ? ” 

Viola could not speak; but she busied herself in pour- 
ing forth an anodyne, which she had been directed to 
give the sufferer as soon as the delirium should cease. 
The doctor had told her, too, to send for him the instant 
so important a change should occur. 

She went to the door and called to the woman who, 
during Gionetta’s pretended illness, had been induced 
to supply her place; but the hireling answered not. 
She flew through the chambers to search for her in 
vain, — the hireling had caught Gionetta’s fears, and 
vanished. What was to be done ? The case was 
urgent, — the doctor had declared not a moment should 
be lost in obtaining his attendance; she must leave her 
father, — she must go herself 1 She crept back into the 
room, — the anodyne seemed already to have taken 
benign effect; the patient’s eyes were closed, and he 
breathed regularly, as in sleep. She stole away, threw 
her veil over her face, and hurried from the house. 

Now the anodyne had not produced the effect which 


ZANONI. 


59 


it appeared to have done ; instead of healthful sleep, it 
had brought on a kind of light-headed somnolence, in 
which the mind, preternaturally restless, wandered 
about its accustomed haunts, waking up its old familiar 
instincts and inclinations. It was not sleep, — it was 
not delirium ; it was the dream-wakefulness which 
opium sometimes induces, when every nerve grows 
tremulously alive, and creates a corresponding activity 
in the frame, to which it gives a false and hectic vigor. 
Pisani missed something, — what, he scarcely knew; 
it was a combination of the two wants most essential to 
his mental life, — the voice of his wife, the touch of 
his Familiar. He rose, — he left his bed, he leisurely 
put on his old dressing-robe, in which he had been 
wont to compose. He smiled complacently as the 
associations connected with the garment came over his 
memory; he walked tremulously across the room, and 
entered the small cabinet next to his chamber, in which 
his wife had been accustomed more often to watch than 
sleep, when illness separated her from his side. The 
room was desolate and void. He looked round wist- 
fully, and muttered to himself, and then proceeded 
regularly, and with a noiseless step, through the cham- 
bers of the silent house, one by one. 

He came at last to that in which old Gionetta — ■ 
faithful to her own safety, if nothing else — nursed 
herself, in the remotest corner of the house, from the 
danger of infection. As he glided in, — wan, emsiciated, 
with an uneasy, anxious, searching look in his haggard 
eyes, — the old woman shrieked aloud, and fell at his 
feet. He bent over her, passed his thin hands along 
her averted face, shook his head, and said in a hollow 
voice, — 

“ I cannot find them ; where are they 1 


60 


ZANOXI. 


“Who, dear master? Oh, have compassion on your- 
self; they are not here. Blessed saints! this is terri- 
ble ; he has touched me ; I am dead ! ” 

“ Dead ! who is dead ? Is any one dead ? ” 

“Ah! don’t talk so; you must know it well: my 
poor mistress, — she caught the fever from you; it is 
infectious enough to kill a whole city. San Gennaro 
protect me! My poor mistress, she is dead, — buried, 
too; and I, your faithful Gionetta, woe is me! Go, 
go- — to — to bed again, dearest master, — go! ” 

The poor musician stood for one moment mute and 
unmoving, then a slight shiver ran through his frame; 
he turned and glided back, silent and spectre-like, as 
he had entered. He came into the room where he had 
been accustomed to compose, — where his wife, in her 
sweet patience, had so often sat by his side, and praised 
and flattered when the world had but jeered and 
scorned. In one corner he found the laurel-wreath she 
had placed on his brows that happy night of fame and 
triumph; and near it, half hid by her mantilla, lay in 
its case the neglected instrument. 

Viola was not long gone : she had found the physi- 
cian; she returned with him ; and as they gained the 
threshold, they heard a strain of music from within, — 
a strain of piercing, heart-rending anguish. It was not 
like some senseless instrument, mechanical in its obedi- 
ence to a human hand, — it was as some spirit calling, 
in wail and agony from the forlorn shades, to the angels 
it beheld afar beyond the Eternal Gulf. They exchanged 
glances of dismay. They hurried into the house; they 
hastened into the room. Pisani turned, and his look, 
full of ghastly intelligence and stern command, awed 
them back. The black mantilla, the faded laurel-leaf, 
lay there before him Viola’s heart guessed all at a 


ZANONI. 61 

single glance ; she sprung to his knees ; she clasped them, 
— “ Father, father, I am left thee still! ” 

The wail ceased, — the note changed; with a confused 
association — half of the man, half of the artist — the 
anguish, still a melody, was connected with sweeter 
sounds and thoughts. The nightingale had escaped the 
pursuit, — soft, airy, bird-like, thrilled the delicious 
notes a moment, and then died away. The instrument 
fell to the floor, and its chords snapped. You heard 
that sound through the silence. The artist looked on 
his kneeling child, and then on the broken chords. 
. . . “Bury me by her side,” he said, in a very calm, 
low voice; “ and that by mine.” And with these words 
his whole frame became rigid, as if turned to stone. 
The last change passed over his face. He fell to the 
ground, sudden and heavy. The chords there, too, — 
the chords of the human instrument were snapped 
asunder. As he fell, his robe brushed the laurel- 
wreath, and that fell also, near but not in reach of the 
dead man’s nerveless hand. 

Broken instrument, broken heart, withered laurel- 
wreath ! — the setting sun through the vine-clad lattice 
streamed on all! So smiles the eternal Nature on the 
wrecks of all that make life glorious ! And not a sun 
that sets not somewhere on the silenced music, — on 
the faded laurel ! 


62 


ZANONI. 


CHAPTER X. 

Che difesa miglior ch’ usbergo e scudo, 

E la Santa iunocenza al petto ignudo ! i 

Ger. Lib., c. viii. xli. 


And they buried the musician and his barbiton together, 
in the same coffin. That famous Steiner — primeval 
Titan of the great Tyrolese race — often hast thou sought 
to scale the heavens, and therefore must thou, like the 
meaner children of men, descend to the dismal Hades! 
Harder fate for thee than thy mortal master. For thy^ 
soul sleeps with thee in the coffin. And the music that 
belongs to his, separate from the instrument, ascends on 
high, to be heard often by a daughter’s pious ears when 
the heaven is serene and the earth sad. For there is a 
sense of hearing that the vulgar know not. And the 
voices of the dead breathe soft and frequent to those who 
can unite the memory with the faith. , 

And now Viola is alone in the world, — alone in the 
home where loneliness had seemed from the cradle a 
thing that was not of nature. And at first the solitude 
and the stillness were insupportable. Have you, ye 
mourners, to whom these sibyl leaves, weird with many 
a dark enigma, shall be borne, have you not felt that 
when the death of some best-loved one has made the 
hearth desolate, — have you not felt as if the gloom of 
the altered home was too heavy for thought to bear? — 
you would leave it, though a palace, even for a cabin. 

1 Better defence than shield or breastplate is holy innocence to 
the naked breast. 


ZANONI. 


63 


And yet, — sad to say, — when you obey the impulse, 
when you fly from the walls, when in the strange place 
in which you seek your refuge nothing speaks to you of 
the lost, have ye not felt again a yearning for that very 
food to memory which was just before hut bitterness 
and gall ? Is it not almost impious and profane to aban- 
don that dear hearth to strangers? And the desertion 
of the home where your parents dwelt, and blessed you, 
upbraids your conscience as if you had sold their tombs. 
Beautiful was the Etruscan superstition that the ances- 
tors become the household gods. Deaf is the heart to 
which the Lares call from the desolate floors in vain. 
At first Viola had, in her intolerable anguish, gratefully 
welcomed the refuge which the house and family of a 
kindly neighbor, much attached to her father, and who 
was one of the orchestra that Pisani shall perplex no 
more, had proffered to the orphan. But the company 
of the unfamiliar in our grief, the consolation of the 
stranger, how it irritates the wound! And then, to 
hear elsewhere the name of father, mother, child, — as 
if death came alone to you, — to see elsewhere the calm 
regularity of those lives united in love and order, keep- 
ing account of happy hours, the unbroken timepiece of 
home, as if nowhere else the wheels were arrested, the 
chain shattered, the hands motionless, the chime still! 
No, the grave itself does not remind us of our loss like 
the company of those who have no loss to mourn. Go 
back to thy solitude, young orphan, — go back to thy 
home : the sorrow that meets thee on the threshold can 
greet thee, even in its sadness, like the smile upon the 
face of the dead. And there, from thy casement, and 
there, from without thy door, thou seest still the tree, 
solitary as thyself, and springing from the clefts of the 
rock, hut forcing its way to light, — as, through all 
sorrow, while the seasons yet can renew the verdure and 


64 


ZANONL 


bloom of youth, strives the instinct of the human heart! 
Only when the sap is dried up, only when age comes on, 
does the sun shine in vain for man and for the tree. 

Weeks and months — months sad and many — again 
passed, and Naples will not longer suffer its idol to 
seclude itself from homage. The world ever plucks us 
back from ourselves with a thousand arms. And again 
Viola’s voice is heard upon the stage, which, mystically 
faithful to life, is in nought more faithful than this, 
that it is the appearances that fill the scene; and we 
pause not to ask of what realities they are the proxies. 
When the actor of Athens moved all hearts as he clasped 
the burial urn, and burst into broken sobs; how few, 
there, knew that it held the ashes of his son! Gold, 
as well as fame, was showered upon the young actress; 
but she still kept to her simpie mode of life, to her lowly 
home, 'to the one servant whose faults, selfish as they 
were, Viola was too inexperienced to perceive. And it 
was Gionetta who had placed her when first born in 
her father’s arms! She was surrounded by every snare, 
wooed by every solicitation that could beset her 
unguarded beauty and her dangerous calling. But her 
modest virtue passed unsullied through them all. It 
is true that she had been taught by lips now mute the 
maiden duties enjoined by honor and religion. And 
all love that spoke not of the altar only shocked and 
repelled her. But besides that, as grief and solitude 
ripened her heart, and made her tremble at times to 
think how deeply it could feel, her vague and early 
visions shaped themselves into an ideal of love. And 
till the ideal is found, how the shadow that it throws 
before it chills us to the actual! With that ideal, ever 
and ever, unconsciously, and with a certain awe and 
shrinking, came the shape and voice of the warning 
stranger. Nearly two years had passed since he had 


ZANONI. 


65 


appeared at Naples. Nothing had been heard of him, 
save that his vessel had been directed, some months 
after his departure, to sail for Leghorn. By the gossips 
of Naples, his existence, supposed so extraordinary, was 
wellnigh forgotten; but the heart of Viola was more 
faithful. Often he glided through her dreams, and 
when the wind sighed through that fantastic tree, asso- 
ciated with his remembrance, she started with a tremor 
and a blush, as if she had heard him speak. 

But amongst the train of her suitors was one to whom 
she listened more gently than to the rest; partly 
because, perhaps, he spoke in her mother’s native 
tongue; partly because in his diffidence there was little 
to alarm and displease ; partly because his rank, nearer 
to her own than that of lordlier wooers, prevented his 
admiration from appearing insult; partly because he 
himself, eloquent and a dreamer, often uttered thoughts 
that were kindred to those buried deepest in her mind. 
She began to like, perhaps to love him, but as a sister 
loves; a sort of privileged familiarity sprung up between 
them. If in the Englishman’s breast arose wild and 
unworthy hopes, he had not yet expressed them. Is 
there danger to thee here, lone Viola, or is the danger 
greater in thy unfound ideal ? 

And now, as the overture to some strange and wizard 
spectacle, closes this opening prelude. Wilt thou hear 
more ? Come with thy faith prepared. I ask not the 
blinded eyes, but the awakened sense. As the 
enchanted Isle, remote from the homes of men, — 

“ Ove alcun legno 

Rado, o non mai va dalle nostre sponde,” — ^ 


1 Where ship seldom or never comes from our coasts. 

Ger. Lib., cant. xiv. 69. 


5 


66 


ZANONL 


is the space in the weary ocean of actual life to which 
the Muse or Sibyl (ancient in years, but ever young 
in aspect), offers thee no unhallowed sail, — 

“ Quinci ella in cima a una montagna ascende 
Disabitata, e d’ ombre oscura e bruna; 

E par incanto a lei nevose rende 
Le spalle e i fiaiichi ; e sensa neve alcuna 
Gli lascia il capo verdeggiante e vago ; 

E vi fond a un palagio appresso un lago.” ^ 


1 There, she a mountain’s lofty peak ascends, 
Unpeopled, shady, shagg’d with forests brown, 

Whose sides, by power of magic, half-way down 
She heaps with slippery ice and frost and snow. 

But sunshiny and verdant leaves the crown 
With orange-woods and myrtles, — speaks, and lo! 
Rich from the bordering lake a palace rises slow. 

Wiffin’s Translation. 


BOOK II. 


ART, LOVE, AND WONDER. 


CHAPTER I. 

Centauri, e Sfingi, e pallide Gorgoui.^ 

Ger. Lib., c. iv. V. 

One moonlit night, in the Gardens at Naples, some 
four or five gentlemen were seated under a tree, drinking 
their sherbet, and listening, in the intervals of conversa- 
tion, to the music which enlivened that gay and favorite 
resort of an indolent population. One of this little 
party was a young Englishman, who had been the life 
of the whole group, hut who, for the last few moments, 
had sunk into a gloomy and abstracted reverie. One of 
his countrymen observed this sudden gloom, and, tap- 
ping him on the hack, said, “ What ails you, Glyndon ? 
Are you ill? You have grown quite pale, — you trem- 
ble. Is it a sudden chill? You had better go home: 
these Italian nights are often dangerous to our English 
constitutions. ” 

“No, I am well now; it was a passing shudder. I 
cannot account for it myself.” 

A man, apparently of about thirty years of age, and 
of a mien and countenance strikingly superior to those 
around him, turned abruptly, and looked steadfastly at 
Glyndon. 

1 Centaurs and Sphinxes and pallid Gorgous. 


68 


ZANONI. 


I think I understand what you mean,” said he; 
“ and perhaps, ” he added, with a grave smile, I could 
explain it better than yourself.” Here, turning to the 
others, he added, “ You must often have felt, gentlemen, 
each and all of you, especially when sitting alone at 
night, a strange and unaccountable sensation of coldness 
and awe creep over you; your blood curdles, and the 
heart stands still; the limbs shiver; the hair bristles; 
you are afraid to look up, to turn your eyes to the 
darker corners of the room; you have a horrible fancy 
that something unearthly is at hand ; presently the whole 
spell, if I may so call it, passes away, and you are ready 
to laugh at your own weakness. Have you not often 
felt what I have thus imperfectly described ? — if so, you 
can understand what our young friend has just experi- 
enced, even amidst the delights of this magical scene, 
and amidst the balmy whispers of a July night.” 

“ Sir, ” replied Glyndon, evidently much surprised, 

“ you have defined exactly the nature of that shudder 
which came over me. But how could my manner be sa 
faithful an index to my impressions ? ” 

“ I know the signs of the visitation, ” returned the 
stranger, gravely ; “ they are not to be mistaken by one 
of my experience.” 

All the gentlemen present then declared that they 
could comprehend, and had felt, what the stranger had 
described. 

“ According to one of our national superstitions, ” said 
Mervale, the Englishman who had first addressed Glyn- 
don, “ the moment you so feel your blood creep, and 
your hair stand on end, some one is walking over the 
spot which shall be your grave.” 

“ There are in all lands different superstitions to account 
for so common an occurrence,” replied the stranger: 


ZANONI. 


69 


** one sect among the Arabians holds that at that instant 
God is deciding the hour either of your death, or of 
some one dear to you. The African savage, whose 
imagination is darkened by the hideous rites of his 
gloomy idolatry, believes that the Evil Spirit is pulling 
you towards him by the hair; so do the Grotesque and 
the Terrible mingle with each other.” 

“ It is evidently a mere physical accident, — a derange- 
ment of the stomach, a chill of the blood, ” said a young 
Neapolitan, with whom Glyndon had formed a slight 
acquaintance. 

“ Then why is it always coupled in all nations with 
some superstitious presentiment or terror, — some connec- 
tion between the material frame and the supposed world 
without us ? For my part, I think — ” 

“ Ay, what do you think, sir ? ” asked Glyndon, 
curiously. 

“ I think, ” continued the stranger, “ that it is the 
repugnance and horror with which our more human 
elements recoil from something, indeed, invisible, but 
antipathetic to our own nature; and from a knowledge 
of which we are happily secured by the imperfection of 
our senses.” 

“You are a believer in spirits, then?” said Mervale, 
with an incredulous smile. 

“ Nay, it was not precisely of spirits that I spoke ; but 
there may be forms of matter as invisible and impalpa- 
ble to us as the animalculse in the air we breathe, — in 
the water that plays in yonder basin. Such beings may 
have passions and powers like our own — as the animal- 
culse to which I have compared them. The monster 
that lives and dies in a drop of water — carnivorous, 
insatiable, subsisting on the creatures minuter than him- 
self — is not less deadly in his wrath, less ferocious in 


70 


ZANONI. 


his nature, than the tiger of the desert. There may he 
things around us that would he dangerous and hostile to 
men, if Providence had not placed a wall between them 
and us, merely hy different modifications of matter. ” 

“ And think you that wall never can he removed ? 
asked young Glyndon, abruptly. “ Are the traditions 
of sorcerer and wizard, universal and immemorial as they 
are, merely fables ? ” 

“ Perhaps yes, — perhaps no,” answered the stranger, 
indifferently. “But who, in an age in which the reason 
has chosen its proper hounds, would he mad enough to 
break the partition that divides him from the boa and 
the lion, — to repine at and rebel against the law which 
confines the shark to the great deep 1 Enough of these 
idle speculations. ” 

Here the stranger rose, summoned the attendant, paid 
for his sherbet, and, bowing slightly to the company, 
soon disappeared among the trees. 

“ Who is that gentleman? ” asked Glyndon, eagerly. 

The rest looked at each other, without replying, for 
some moments. 

“ I never saw him before,” said Mervale, at last. 

“ Kor I.” 

“Nor I. 

“ I know him well,” said the Neapolitan, who was, 
indeed, the Count Cetoxa. “ If you remember, it was 
as my companion that he joined you. He visited 
Naples about two years ago, and has recently returned; 
he is very rich, — indeed, enormously so. A most 
agreeable person. I am sorry to hear him talk so 
strangely to-night; it serves to encourage the various 
foolish reports that are circulated concerning him.” 

“ And surely,” said another Neapolitan, “ the circum- 
stance that occurred but the other day, so well known to 


ZANONI. 7i. 

yourself, Cetoxa, justifies the reports you pretend to 
deprecate. ” 

“Myself and my countryman,” said Glyndon, “mix 
so little in Neapolitan society, that we lose much that 
appears well worthy of lively interest. May I inquire 
what are the reports, and what is the circumstance you 
refer to ” 

“As to the reports, gentlemen,” said Cetoxa, courte- 
ously, addressing himself to the two Englishmen, “ it 
may suffice to observe, that they attribute to the Signor 
Zanoni certain qualities which everybody desires for 
himself, but damns any one else for possessing. The 
incident Signor Belgioso alludes to, illustrates these 
qualities, and is, I must own, somewhat startling. You 
probably play, gentlemen?” (Here Cetoxa paused; 
and as both Englishmen had occasionally staked a few 
scudi at the public gaming-tables, they bowed assent 
to the conjecture.) Cetoxa continued. " Well, then, 
not many days since, and on the very day that Zanoni 
returned to Naples, it so happened that I had been 
playing pretty high, and had lost considerably. I rose 
from the table, resolved no longer to tempt fortune, 
when I suddenly perceived Zanoni, whose acquaintance 
I had before made (and who, 1 may say, was under some 
slight obligation to me) , standing by, a spectator. Ere 
I could express my gratification at this unexpected recog- 
nition, he laid his hand on my arm. ‘ You have lost 
much,’ said he; ‘ more than you can afford. For my 
part, I dislike play; yet I wish to have some interest 
in what is going on. Will you play this sum for me ? 
the risk is mine, — the half profits yours.’ I was 
startled, as you may suppose, at such an address; but 
Zanoni had an air and tone with him it was impossible 
to resist; besides, I was burning to recover my losses, 


72 


ZANONI. 


and should not have risen had I had any money left 
about me. I told him I would accept his offer, provided 
we shared the risk as well as profits. ‘ As you will,’ 
said he, smiling; ‘ we need have no scruple, for you will 
be sure to win. ’ I sat down ; Zanoni stood behind me ; 
my luck rose , — I invariably won. In fact, I rose from 
the table a rich man.” 

“ There can be no foul play at the public tables, espe- 
cially when foul play would make against the bank ? ” 
This question was put by Glyndon. 

Certainly not,” replied the count. “ But our good 
fortune was, indeed, marvellous, — so extraordinary 
that a Sicilian (the Sicilians are all ill-bred, bad- 
tempered fellows) grew angry and insolent. ‘ Sir,’ said 
he, turning to my new friend, ‘ you have no business to 
stand so near to the table. I do not understand this ; you 
have not acted fairly.’ Zanoni replied, with great 
composure, that he had done nothing against the rules, 
— that he was very sorry that one man could not win 
without another man losing; and that he could not 
act unfairly, even if disposed to do so. The Sicilian 
took the stranger’s mildness for apprehension, and blus- 
tered more loudly. In fact, he rose from the table, 
and confronted Zanoni in a manner that, to say the 
least of it, was provoking to any gentleman who has 
feome quickness of temper, or some skill with the small- 
sword. ” 

“ And,” interrupted Belgioso, “ the most singular part 
of the whole to me was, that this Zanoni, who stood 
opposite to where I sat, and whose face I distinctly saw, 
made no remark, showed no resentment. He fixed his 
eyes steadfastly on the Sicilian; never shall I forget 
that look! it is impossible to describe it, — it froze the 
blood in my veins. The Sicilian staggered hack as if 


ZANONI. 73 

struck. I saw him tremble; he sank on the bench. 
And then — ” 

“Yes, then,” said Cetoxa,“to my infinite surprise, 
our gentleman, thus disarmed by a look from Zanoni, 
turned his whole anger upon me , the — hut perhaps you 
do not know, gentlemen, that I have some repute with 
my weapon ? ” 

“The best swordsman in Italy,” said Belgioso. 

“ Before I could guess why or wherefore,” resumed 
Cetoxa, “ I found myself in the garden behind the 
house, with Ughelli (that was the Sicilian’s name) 
facing me, and five or six gentlemen, the witnesses of 
the duel about to take place, around. Zanoni beckoned 
me aside. ‘ This man will fall,’ said he. ‘ When he 
is on the ground, go to him, and ask whether he will be 
buried by the side of his father in the church of San 
Gennaro % ’ ‘ Do you then know his family ? ’ I asked 

with great surprise. Zanoni made me no answer, and 
the next moment I was engaged with the Sicilian. To 
do him justice, his imbrogliato was magnificent, and a 
swifter lounger never crossed a sword; nevertheless,” 
added Cetoxa, with a pleasing modesty, “ he was run 
through the body. 1 went up to him ; he could scarcely 
speak. ‘ Have you any request to make,, — -any affairs 
to settle ? ’ He shook his head. ‘ Where would you 
wish to be interred? ’ He pointed towards the Sicilian 
coast. ‘ What! ’ said I, in surprise, ‘ not by the side of 
your father, in the church of San Gennaro?’ As I 
spoke, his face altered terribly ; he uttered a piercing 
shriek, — the blood gushed from his mouth, and he fell 
dead. The most strange part of the story is to come. 
We buried him in the church of San Gennaro. In 
doing so, we took up his father’s coffin; the lid came 
off in moving it, and the skeleton was visible. In the 
hollow of the skull we found a very slender wire of 


74 


ZANONI. 


sharp steel; this caused surprise and inquiry. The 
father, who was rich and a miser, had died suddenly, 
and been buried in haste, owing, it was said, to the heat 
of the weather. Suspicion once awakened, the exami- 
nation became minute. The old man’s servant was 
questioned, and at last confessed that the son had mur- 
dered the sire. The contrivance was ingenious: the 
wire was so slender that it pierced to the brain, and 
drew but one drop of blood, which the gray hairs con- 
cealed. The accomplice will be executed.” 

“ And Zanoni, — did he give evidence, did he account 
for — ” 

^‘No,” interrupted the- count: ‘‘he declared that he 
had by accident visited the church that morning; that 
he had observed the tombstone of the Count Ughelli ; 
that his guide had told him the count’s son was in 
Naples, — a spendthrift and a gambler. While we were 
at play, he had heard the count mentioned by name at 
the table ; and when the challenge was given and 
accepted, it had occurred to him to name the place of 
burial, by an instinct which he either could not or 
would not account for.” 

“ A very lame story,” said Mervale. 

“ Yes ! but we Italians are superstitious, — the alleged 
instinct was regarded by many as the whisper of Provi- 
dence. The next day the stranger became an object of 
universal interest and curiosity. His wealth, his 
manner of living, his extraordinary personal beauty, 
have assisted also to make him the rage ; besides, I have 
had pleasure in introducing so eminent a person to our 
gayest cavaliers and our fairest ladies.” 

“A most interesting narrative,” said Mervale, rising. 
“Come, Glyndon; shall we seek our hotel? It is 
almost daylight. Adieu, signor! ” 


ZANONI. . 75 

^ What think you of this story? ” said Glyndon, as 
the young men walked homeward. 

“ Why, it is very clear that this Zanoni is some 
impostor, — some clever rogue; and the Neapolitan 
shares the booty, and puffs him off with all the hack- 
neyed charlatanism of the marvellous. An unknown 
adventurer gets into society by being made an object of 
awe and curiosity; he is more than ordinarily hand- 
some, and the women are quite content to receive him 
without any other recommendation than his own face 
and Cetoxa’s fables.” 

“ I cannot agree with you. Cetoxa, though a gam- 
bler and a rake, is a nobleman of birth and high repute 
for courage and honor. Besides, this stranger, with his 
noble presence and lofty air, — so calm, so unobtrusive, 
— has nothing in common with the forward garrulity 
of an impostor.” 

“ My dear Glyndon, pardon me but you have not yet 
acquired any knowledge of the world! . The stranger 
makes the best of a fine person, and his grand air is 
but a trick of the trade. But to change the subject, — 
how advances the love affair ? ” 

“ Oh, Viola could not see me to-day.” 

“ You must not marry her. What would they all say 
at home ? ” 

“Let us enjoy the present,” said Glyndon, with 
vivacity; “we are young, rich, good-looking; let us 
not think of to-morrow. ” 

“ Bravo, Glyndon ! Here we are at the hotel. Sleep 
sound, and don’t dream of Signor Zanoni.” 


76 


ZANONL 


CHAPTER II. 

Prende, giovine audace e impaziente, 

L* occasione offerta avidamente.i 

Ger. Lib., c. vi. xxix. 

Clarence Glyndon was a young man of fortune, not 
large, but easy and independent. His parents were 
dead, and his nearest relation was an only sister, left in 
England under the care of her aunt, and many years 
younger than himself. Early in life he had evinced 
considerable promise in the art of painting, and rather 
from enthusiasm than any pecuniary necessity for a pro- 
fession, he determined to devote himself to a career in 
which the English artist generally commences with 
rapture and historical composition, to conclude with 
avaricious calculation and portraits of Alderman Simp- 
kins. Glyndon was supposed by his friends to possess 
no inconsiderable genius; but it was of a rash and pre- 
sumptuous order. He was averse from continuous and 
steady labor, and his ambition rather sought to gather 
the fruit than to plant the tree. In common with 
many artists in their youth, he was fond of pleasure and 
excitement, yielding with little forethought to what- 
ever impressed his fancy or appealed to his passions. 
He had travelled through the more celebrated cities of 
Europe, with the avowed purpose and sincere resolution 
of studying the divine masterpieces of his art. But in 
each, pleasure had too often allured him from ambition, 
and living beauty distracted his worship from the sense- 

^ Take, youth, bold and impatient, the offered occasion eagerly. 


ZANONI. 


77 


less canvas. Brave, adventurous, vain, restless, inquis- 
itive, he was ever involved in wild projects and pleasant 
dangers, — the creature of impulse and the slave of 
imagination. 

It was then the period when a feverish spirit of 
change was working its way to that hideous mockery of 
human aspirations, the Kevolution of France; and from 
the chaos into which were already jarring the sanctities 
of the World’s Venerable Belief, arose many shapeless 
and unformed chimeras. Need I remind the reader 
that, while that was the day for polished scepticism and 
affected wisdom, it was the day also for the most egre- 
gious credulity and the most mystical superstitions, — 
the day in which magnetism and magic found converts 
amongst the disciples of Diderot; when prophecies were 
current in every mouth ; when the salon of a philosoph- 
ical deist was converted into an Heraclea, in which 
necromancy professed to conjure up the shadows of the 
dead; when the Crosier and the Book were ridiculed, 
and Mesmer and Cagliostro were believed. In that 
Heliacal Rising, heralding the new sun before which 
all vapors were to vanish, stalked from their graves in 
the feudal ages all the phantoms that had flitted before 
the eyes of Paracelsus and Agrippa. Dazzled by the 
dawn of the Revolution, Glyndon was yet more attracted 
by its strange accompaniments; and natural it was with 
him, as with others, that the fancy which ran riot amidst 
the hopes of a social Utopia, should grasp with avidity 
all that promised, out of the dusty tracks of the beaten 
science, the bold discoveries of some marvellous 
Elysium. 

In his travels he had listened with vivid interest, at 
least, if not with implicit belief, to the wonders told 
of each more renowned Ghost-seer, and his mind was 


78 


ZANONI. 


therefore prepared for the impression which the mysteri 
ous Zanoni at first sight had produced upon it. 

There might he another cause for this disposition to 
credulity. A remote ancestor of Glyndon’s, on the 
mother’s side, had achieved no inconsiderable reputa- 
tion as a philosopher and alchemist. Strange stories 
were afloat concerning this wise progenitor. He was 
said to have lived to an age far exceeding the allotted 
boundaries of mortal existence, and to have preserved 
to the last the appearance of middle life. He had 
died at length, it was supposed, of grief for the sudden 
death of a great-grandchild, the only creature he had 
ever appeared to love. The works of this philosopher, 
though rare, were extant, and found in the library 
of Glyndon’s home. Their Platonic mysticism, their 
hold assertions, the high promises that might be 
detected through their figurative and typical phrase- 
ology, had early made a deep impression on the 
young imagination of Clarence Glyndon. His parents, 
not alive to the consequences of encouraging fancies 
which the very enlightenment of the age appeared to 
them sufficient to prevent or dispel, were fond, in 
the long winter nights, of conversing on the tradi- 
tional history of this distinguished progenitor. And 
Clarence thrilled with a fearful pleasure when his 
mother playfully detected a striking likeness between 
the features of the young heir and the faded portrait of 
the alchemist that overhung their mantelpiece, and was 
the boast of their household and the admiration of their 
friends, — the child is, indeed, more often than we 
think for, “ the father of the man.” 

I have said that Glyndon was fond of pleasure. 
Pacile, as genius ever must he, to cheerful impression, 
his careless artist-life, ere artist-life settles down to 


2AN0NI. 


79 


labor, bad wandered from flower to flower. He had 
enjoyed, almost to the reaction of satiety, the gay 
revelries of Haples, when he fell in love with the face 
and voice of Viola Pisani. But his love, like his ambi- 
tion, was vague and desultory. It did not satisfy his 
whole heart and fill up his whole nature; not from want 
of strong and noble passions, but because his mind was 
not yet matured and settled enough for their develop- 
ment. As there is one season for the blossom, another 
for the fruit; so it is not till the bloom of fancy begins 
to fade, that the heart ripens to the passions that the 
bloom precedes and foretells. Joyous alike at his lonely 
easel or amidst his boon companions, he had not yet 
known enough of sorrow to love deeply. For man must 
be disappointed with the lesser things of life before he 
can comprehend the full value of the greatest. It is 
the shallow sensualists of France, who, in their salon- 
language, call love “ a folly, ” — love, better understood, 
is wisdom. Besides, the world was too much with 
Clarence Glyndon. His ambition of art was associated 
with the applause and estimation of that miserable 
minority of the surface that we call the Public. 

Like those who deceive, he was ever fearful of being 
himself the dupe. He distrusted the sweet innocence 
of Viola. He could not venture the hazard of seriously 
proposing marriage to an Italian actress; but the modest 
dignity of the girl, and something good and generous in 
his own nature, had hitherto made him shrink from 
any more worldly but less honorable designs. Thus the 
familiarity between them seemed rather that of kindness 
and regard than passion. He attended the theatre; he 
stole behind the scenes to converse with her; he filled his 
portfolio with countless sketches of a beauty that charmed 
him as an artist as well as lover; and day after day he 


80 


ZANONI. 


floated on through a changing sea of doubt and irreso- 
lution, of affection and distrust. The last, indeed, 
constantly sustained against his better reason by the 
sober admonitions of Mervale, a matter-of-fact man! 

The day following that eve on which this section of 
my story opens, Glyndon was riding alone by the shores 
of the Neapolitan sea, on the other side of the Cavern 
of Posilipo. It was past noon; the sun had lost its 
early fervor, and a cool breeze sprung up voluptuously 
from the sparkling sea. Bending over a fragment 
of stone near the roadside, he perceived the form of a 
man; and when he approached, he recognized Zanoni. 

The Englishman saluted him courteously. Have 
you discovered some antique?” said he, with a smile; 
“ they are common as pebbles on this road. ” 

“No,” replied Zanoni; “it was hut one of those 
antiques that have their date, indeed, from the begin- 
ning of the Avorld, but which Nature eternally withers 
and renews.” So saying, he showed Glyndon a small 
herb with a pale-blue flower, and then placed it carefully 
in his bosom. 

“ You are an herbalist? ” 

“I am.” 

“ It is, I am told, a study full of interest. 

“ To those who understand it, doubtless.” 

“Is the knowledge, then, so rare? ” 

“ Rare ! The deeper knowledge is perhaps rather, 
among the arts, lost to the modern philosophy of com- 
monplace and surface! Do you imagine there was no 
foundation for those traditions which come dimly down 
from remoter ages, — as shells now found on the 
mountain-tops inform us where the seas have been? 
What was the old Colchian magic, but the minute study 
of Nature in her lowliest works? What the fable of 


ZANONI. 


81 


Medea, but a proof of the powers that may he extracted 
from the germ and leaf? The most gifted of all the 
Priestcrafts, the mysterious sisterhoods of Cuth, concern- 
ing whose incantations Learning vainly bewilders itself 
amidst the maze of legends, sought in the meanest herbs 
what, perhaps, the Babylonian Sages explored in vain 
amidst the loftiest stars. Tradition yet tells you that 
there existed a race ^ who could slay their enemies from 
afar, without weapon, without movement. The herb 
that ye tread on may have deadlier powers than your 
engineers can give to their mightiest instruments of war. 
Can you guess that to these Italian shores, to the old 
Circsean Promontory, came the Wise from the farthest 
East, to search for plants and simples which your 
Pharmacists of the Counter would fling from them as 
weeds ? The first herbalists — the master chemists of 
the world — were the tribe that the ancient reverence 
called by the name of Titans.^ I remember once, by 
the Hebrus, in the reign of — But this talk,” 
said Zanoni, checking himself abruptly, and with a 
cold smile, " serves only to waste your time and my 
own.” He paused, looked steadily at Glyndon, and 
continued, “ Young man, think you that vague curi- 
osity will supply the place of earnest labor? I read 
your heart. You wish to know me, and not this humble 
herb: but pass on; your desire cannot be satisfied.” 

“You have not the politeness of your countrymen,” 
said Glyndon, somewhat discomposed. “ Suppose I 
were desirous to cultivate your acquaintance, why 
should you reject my advances? ” 

“I reject no man’s advances,” answered Zanoni; “I 
must know them if they so desire; but me, in return, 

1 Plat. S/jmp., 1. 5. c. 7. 

2 Syncellus, p. 14. — “ Chemistry the Invention of the Giants.” 


82 


ZANONL 


they can never comprehend. If you ask my acquaint- 
ance, it is yours; but I would warn you to shun me.” 

“ And why are you, then, so dangerous? ” 

On this earth, men are often, without their own 
agency, fated to be dangerous to others. If I were to 
predict your fortune by the vain calculations of the 
astrologer, I should tell you, in their despicable jargon, 
that my planet sat darkly in your house of life. Cross 
me not, if you can avoid it. I warn you now for the 
first time and last.” 

“ You despise the astrologers, yet you utter a jargon 
as mysterious as theirs. I neither gamble nor quarrel ; 
why, then, should I fear you? ” 

“ As you will ; I have done. ” 

Let me speak frankly, — your conversation last 
night interested and perplexed me. ” 

“I knew it: minds like yours are attracted by 
mystery. ” 

Glyndon was piqued at these words, though in the 
tone in which they were spoken there was no contempt. 

" I see you do not consider me worthy of your friend- 
ship. Be it so. Good-day ! ” 

Zanoni coldly replied to the salutation; and as the 
Englishman rode on, returned to his botanical employ- 
ment. 

The same night, Glyndon went, as usual, to the 
theatre. He was standing behind the scenes watching 
Viola, who was on the stage in one of her most bril- 
liant parts. The house resounded with applause. 
Glyndon was transported with a young man's passion 
and a young man’s pride: “This glorious creature,” 
thought he, “ may yet be mine.” 

He felt, while thus wrapped in delicious reverie, a 
slight touch upon his shoulder; he turned, and beheld 


ZANONI. 83 

Zanoni. “ You are in danger,” said the latter. “ Do 
not walk home to-night; or if you do, go not alone.” 

Before Glyndon recovered from his surprise, Zanoni 
disappeared; and when the Englishman saw him again, 
he was in the box of one of the Neapolitan nobles, where 
Glyndon could not follow him. 

Viola now left the stage, and Glyndon accosted her 
with an unaccustomed warmth of gallantry. But Viola, 
contrary to her gentle habit, turned with an evident 
impatience from the address of her lover. Taking 
aside Gionetta, who was her constant attendant at the 
theatre, she said, in an earnest whisper, — 

“ Oh , Gionetta ! He is here again ! — the stranger of 
whom I spoke to thee! — and again, he alone, of the 
whole theatre, withholds from me his applause.” 

"Which is he, my darling?” said the old woman, 
with fondness in her voice. " He must indeed be dull, 
— not worth a thought. ” 

The actress drew Gionetta nearer to the stage, and 
pointed out to her a man in one of the boxes, con- 
spicuous amongst all else by the simplicity of his dress, 
and the extraordinary beauty of his features. 

“ Not worth a thought, Gionetta! ” repeated Viola, — 
“ not worth a thought! Alas, not to think of him, 
seems the absence of thought itself! ” 

The prompter summoned the Signora Pisani. Eind 
out his name, Gionetta, ” said she, moving slowly to the 
stage, and passing by Glyndon, who gazed at her with a 
look of sorrowful reproach. 

The scene on which the actress now entered was that 
of the final catastrophe, wherein all her remarkable 
powers of voice and art were pre-eminently called forth. 
The house hung on every word with breathless worship ; 
but the eyes of Viola sought only those of one calm and 


84 


ZANONI. 


unmoved spectator; she exerted herself as if inspired. 
Zanoni listened, and observed her with an attentive 
gaze, but no approval escaped his lips ; no emotion 
changed the expression of his cold and half-disdainful 
aspect. Viola, who was in the character of one who 
loved, but without return, never felt so acutely the part 
she played. Her tears were truthful; her passion that 
of nature: it was almost too terrible to behold. She 
was borne from the stage exhausted and insensible, 
amidst such a tempest of admiring rapture as Conti- 
nental audiences alone can raise. The crowd stood up, 
handkerchiefs waved, garlands and flowers were thrown 
on the stage, — men wiped their eyes, and women 
sobbed aloud. 

“By heavens!” said a Neapolitan of great rank, 
“ she has fired me beyond endurance. To-night — this 
very night — she shall be mine ! You have arranged 
all, Mascari ? ” 

“ All, signor. And the young Englishman ? ” 

“ The presuming barbarian ! As I before told thee, 
let him bleed for his folly. I will have no rival. ” 

“ But an Englishman 1 There is always a search after 
the bodies of the English.” 

“Fool! is not the sea deep enough, or the earth 
secret enough, to hide one dead man? Our ruffians 
are silent as the grave itself ; and I ! — who would 

dare to suspect, to arraign the Prince di ? See to 

it, — this night. I trust him to you. Bobbers murder 
him, you understand, — the country swarms with them : 
plunder and strip him, the better to favor such report. 
Take three men; the rest shall be my escort.” 

Mascari shrugged his shoulders, and bowed submis- 
sively. 

The streets of Naples were not then so safe as now, 


ZANONI. 


85 


and carriages were both less expensive and more neces 
sary. The vehicle which was regularly engaged by the 
young actress was not to be found. Gionetta, too aware 
of the beauty of her mistress and the number of her 
admirers to contemplate without alarm the idea of their 
return on foot, communicated her distress to Glyndon,, 
and he besought Viola, who recovered but slowly, to 
accept his own carriage. Perhaps before that night she 
would not have rejected so slight a service. Now, for 
some reason or other, she refused. Glyndon, offended,, 
was retiring sullenly, when Gionetta stopped him. 
“ Stay, signor, ” said she, coaxingly : “ the dear signora 
is not well, — do not be angry with her; I will make her 
accept your offer. ” 

Glyndon stayed, and after a few moments spent in 
expostulation on the part of Gionetta, and resistance on 
that of Viola, the offer was accepted. Gionetta and her 
charge entered the carriage, and Glyndon was left at the 
door of the theatre to return home on foot. The myste- 
rious warning of Zanoni then suddenly occurred to him; 
he had forgotten it in the interest of his lover’s quarrel 
with Viola. He thought it now advisable to guard 
against danger foretold by lips so mysterious. He looked 
round for some one he knew : the theatre was disgorging 
its crowds; they hustled, and jostled, and pressed upon 
him; but he recognized no familiar countenance. While 
pausing irresolute, he heard Mervale’s voice calling on 
him, and, to his great relief, discovered his friend making 
his way through the throng. 

“ I have secured you, ” said he, “ a place in the Count 
Cetoxa’s carriage. Come along, he is waiting for us.” 

“ How kind in you ! how did you find me out ? ” 

“I met Zanoni in the passage, — ‘Your friend is at 
the door of the theatre,’ said he; ‘do not let him go 


86 


ZANONI. 


home on foot to-night; the streets of Naples are not 
always safe.’ I immediately remembered that some of 
the Calabrian bravos had been busy within the city the 
last few weeks, and suddenly meeting Cetoxa — but 
here he is.” 

Further explanation was forbidden, for they now 
joined the count. As Glyndon entered the carriage and 
drew up the glass, he saw four men standing apart by the 
pavement, who seemed to eye him with attention. 

“ Cospetto ! ” cried one ; “ that is the Englishman ! ” 
Glyndon imperfectly heard the exclamation as the car- 
riage drove on. He reached home in safety. 

The familiar and endearing intimacy which always 
exists in Italy between the nurse and the child she has 
reared, and which the “ Eomeo and Juliet ” of Shake- 
speare in no way exaggerates, could not but be drawn 
yet closer than usual, in a situation so friendless as that 
of the orphan-actress. In all that concerned the weak- 
nesses of the heart, Gionetta had large experience ; and 
when, three nights before, Viola, on returning from the 
theatre, had wept bitterly, the nurse had succeeded in 
extracting from her a confession that she had seen one, 
— not seen for two weary and eventful years, — but 
never forgotten, and who, alas! had not evinced the 
slightest recognition of herself. Gionetta could not 
comprehend all the vague and innocent emotions that 
swelled this sorrow ; but she resolved them all, with her 
plain, blunt understanding, to the one sentiment of love. 
And here, she was well fitted to sympathize and console. 
Confidante to Viola’s entire and deep heart she never 
could be, — for that heart never could have words for all 
its secrets. But such confidence as she could obtain, she 
^ was ready to repay by the most unreproving pity and the 
most ready service. 


ZANONI. 87 

‘‘Have you discovered who he is?” asked Viola, as 
she was now alone in the carriage with Gionetta. 

“Yes; he is the celebrated Signor Zanoni, about 
whom all the great ladies have gone mad. They say 
he is so rich! — oh! so much richer than any of the 
Inglesi ! — not hut what the Signor Glyndon — ” 

“ Cease ! ” interrupted the young actress. “ Zanoni ! 
Speak of the Englishman no more.’’ 

The carriage was now entering that more lonely and 
remote part of the city in which Viola’s house was 
situated, when it suddenly stopped. 

Gionetta, in alarm, thrust her head out of the window, 
and perceived, by the pale light of the moon, that the 
driver, torn from his seat, was already pinioned in the 
arms of two men ; the next moment the door was opened 
violently, and a tall figure, masked and mantled, 
appeared. 

“Fear not, fairest Pisani,” said he, gently; “no ill 
shall befall you.” As he spoke, he wound his arm 
round the form of the fair actress, and endeavored to 
lift her from the carriage. But Gionetta was no 
ordinary ally, — she thrust hack the assailant with a 
force that astonished him, and followed the shock by a 
volley of the most energetic reprobation. 

The mask drew back, and composed his disordered 
mantle. 

“By the body of Bacchus! ” said he, half laughing, * 
“ she is well protected. Here, Luigi, Giovanni! seize 
the hag ! — quick ! — why loiter ye ? ” 

The mask retired from the door, and another and yet 
taller form presented itself. “Be calm, Viola Pisani,” 
said he, in a low voice; " with me you are indeed safe! ” 
He lifted his mask as he spoke, and showed the noble 
features of Zanoni. 


88 


ZANONI. 


“Be calm, be hushed, — I can save you.” He van« 
ished, leaving Viola lost in surprise, agitation, and 
delight. There were, in all, nine masks: two were 
engaged with the driver ; one stood at the head of the 
carriage-horses; a fourth guarded the well-trained 
steeds of the party ; three others (besides Zanoni and 
the one who had first accosted Viola) stood apart by a 
carriage drawn to the side of the road. To these three 
Zanoni motioned; they advanced; he pointed towards 

the first mask, who was in fact the Prince di , and 

to his unspeakable astonishment the prince was sud- 
denly seized from behind. 

“Treason!” he cried. “Treason among my own 
men ! What means this ? ” 

“ Place him in his carriage ! If he resist, his blood 
be on his own head! ” said Zanoni, calmly. 

He approached the men who had detained the 
coachman. 

“You are outnumbered and outwitted,” said he; 
“join your lord; you are three men, — we six, armed 
to the teeth. Thank our mercy that we spare your 
lives. Go!” 

The men gave way, dismayed. The driver remounted. 

“ Cut the traces of their carriage and the bridles of 
their horses,” said Zanoni, as he entered the vehicle 
containing Viola, which now drove on rapidly, leav- 
ing the discomfited ravisher in a state of rage and 
stupor impossible to describe. 

“Allow me to explain this mystery to you,” said 
Zanoni. “I discovered the plot against you, — no 
matter how; I frustrated it thus: The head of this 
design is a nobleman, who has long persecuted you in 
vain. He and two of his creatures watched you from 
the entrance of the theatre, having directed six others to 


ZANONI. 


89 


await him on the spot where you were attacked ; myself 
and five of my servants supplied their place, and were 
mistaken for his own followers. I had previously 
ridden alone to the spot where the men were waiting, 
and informed them that their master would not require 
their services that night. They believed me, and 
accordingly dispersed. I then joined my own band, 
whom I had left in the rear; you know all. We are at 
your door.’’ 


9U 


ZANONL 


CHAPTER III. 

When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see, 

For all the day they view things unrespected ; 

But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee, 

And, darkly bright, are bright in dark directed. 

Shakespeare. 

Zanoni followed the young Neapolitan into her house; 
Gionetta vanished, — they were left alone. 

Alone, in that room so often filled, in the old happy 
days, with the wild melodies of Pisani; and now, as 
she saw this mysterious, haunting, yet beautiful and 
stately stranger, standing on the very spot where she 
had sat at her father’s feet, thrilled and spellbound, — 
she almost thought, in her fantastic way of personifying 
her own airy notions, that that spiritual Music had 
taken shape and life, and stood before her glorious in 
the image it assumed. She was unconscious all the 
while of her own loveliness. She had thrown aside her 
hood and veil; her hair, somewhat disordered, fell over 
the ivory neck which the dress partially displayed; and 
as her dark eyes swam with grateful tears, and her 
cheek flushed with its late excitement, the god of light 
and music himself never, amidst his Arcadian valleys, 
wooed, in his mortal guise, maiden or nymph more fair. 

Zanoni gazed at her with a look in which admiration 
seemed not unmingled with compassion. He muttered 
a few words to himself, and then addressed her aloud. 

“Viola, I have saved you from a great peril; not 
from dishonor only, but perhaps from death. The 


ZANONI. 


91 


Prince di , under a weak despot and a venal 

administration, is a man above the law. He is capable 
of every crime; but amongst his passions he has such 
prudence as belongs to ambition; if you were not to 
reconcile yourself to your shame, you would never enter 
the world again to tell your tale. The ravisher has no 
heart for repentance , but he has a hand that can murder. 
I have saved you, Viola. Perhaps you would ask me 
wherefore 1 ” Zanoni paused, and smiled mournfully, as 
he added, “ You will not wrong me by the thought that 
he who has preserved is not less selfish than he who 
would have injured. Orphan, I do not speak to you in 
the language of your wooers; enough that I know pity, 
and am not ungrateful for affection. Why blush, why 
tremble at the word? I read your heart while I speak, 
and I see not one thought that should give you shame. 
I say not that you love me yet; happily, the fancy may 
be roused long before the heart is touched. But it has 
been my fate to fascinate your eye, to influence your 
imagination. It is to warn you against what could 
bring you but sorrow, as I warned you once to prepare 
for sorrow itself, that I am now your guest. The Eng- 
lishman, Glyndon, loves thee well, — better, perhaps, 
than I can ever love; if not worthy of thee, yet, he has 
but to know thee more to deserve thee better. He may 
wed thee, he may bear thee to his own free and happy 
land, — the land of thy mother’s kin. Forget me ; teach 
thyself to return and deserve his love; and I tell thee 
that thou wilt be honored and be happy. ” 

Viola listened with silent, inexpressible emotion, and 
burning blushes, to this strange address, and when he 
had concluded, she covered her face with her hands, and 
wept. And yet, much as his words were calculated to 
humble or irritate, to produce indignation or excite 


92 


ZANONI. 


shame, those were not the feelings with which her eyes 
streamed and her heart swelled. The woman at that 
moment was lost in the child; and as a child, with all 
its exacting, craving, yet innocent desire to he loved, 
weeps in unrehuking sadness when its affection is thrown 
austerely back upon itself, — so, without anger and 
without shame, wept Viola. 

Zanoni contemplated her thus, as her graceful head, 
shadowed by its redundant tresses, bent before him; and 
after a moment’s pause he drew near to her, and said, 
in a voice of the most soothing sweetness, and with a 
half smile upon his lip, — 

“ Do you remember, when I told you to struggle for 
the light, that I pointed for example to the resolute 
and earnest tree? I did not tell you, fair child, to take 
example by the moth, that would soar to the star, but 
falls scorched beside the lamp. Come, I will talk to 
thee. This Englishman — ” 

Viola drew herself away, and wept yet more 
passionately. 

“ This Englishman is of thine own years, not far 
above thine own rank. Thou mayst share his thoughts 
in life, — thou mayst sleep beside him in the same grave 
in death ! And I — hut that view of the future should 
concern us not. Look into thy heart, and thou wilt see 
that till again my shadow crossed thy path, there had 
grown up for this thine equal a pure and calm affection 
that would have ripened into love. Hast thou never 
pictured to thyself a home in which thy partner was thy 
young wooer ? ” 

“ Never! ” said Viola, with sudden energy, — never 
hut to feel that such was not the fate ordained me. 
And, oh! ” she continued, rising suddenly, and, put- 
ting aside the tresses that veiled her face, she fixed 


ZANONI. 


93 


her eyes upon the questioner, — “and, oh! whoever 
thou art that thus wouldst read my soul and shape my 
future, do not mistake the sentiment that, that — ” she 
faltered an instant, and went on with downcast eyes, — 
“ that has fascinated my thoughts to thee. Do not think 
that I could nourish a love unsought and unreturned. 
It is not love that I feel for thee, stranger. Why 
should 1 1 Thou hast never spoken to me hut to 
admonish, — and now, to wound! ” Again she paused, 
again her voice faltered; the tears trembled on her eye- 
lids; she brushed them away and resumed. “No, not 
love, — if that be love which I have heard and read of, 
and sought to simulate on the stage, — but a more 
solemn, fearful, and, it seems to me, almost preter- 
natural attraction, which makes me associate thee, 
waking or dreaming, with images that at once charm 
and awe. Thinkest thou, if it were love, that I could 
speak to thee thus; that,” she raised her looks sud- 
denly to his, “ mine eyes could thus search and confront 
thine own? Stranger, I ask but at times to see, to hear 
thee! Stranger, talk not to me of others. Forewarn, 
rebuke, bruise my heart, reject the not unworthy 
gratitude it offers thee, if thou wilt, hut come not always 
to me as an omen of grief and trouble. Sometimes have 
I seen thee in my dreams surrounded by shapes of glory 
and light; thy looks radiant with a celestial joy which 
they wear not now. Stranger, thou hast saved me, and 
I thank and bless thee! Is that also a homage thou 
wouldst reject?” With these words, she crossed her 
arms meekly on her bosom, and inclined lowlily before 
him. Nor did her humility seem unwomanly or abject, 
nor that of mistress to lover, of slave to master, but 
rather of a child to its guardian, of a neophyte of the old 
religion to her priest. Zanoni’s brow was melancholy 


94 


ZANONI. 


and thoughtful. He looked at her with a strange 
expression of kindness, of sorrow, yet of tender affection, 
in his eyes; hut his lips were stern, and his voice cold, 
as he replied, — 

“ Do you know what you ask, Viola? Do you guess 
the danger to yourself — perhaps to both of us — which 
you court? Do you know that my life, separated from 
the turbulent herd of men, is one worship of the Beau- 
tiful, from which I seek to banish what the Beautiful 
inspires in most? As a calamity, I shun what to man 
seems the fairest fate, — the love of the daughters of 
earth. At present I can warn and save thee from many 
evils; if I saw more of thee, would the power still he 
mine ? You understand me not. WJiat I am about to 
add, it will he easier to comprehend. I hid thee banish 
from thy heart all thought of me, hut as one whom the 
Future cries aloud to thee to avoid. Glyndon, if thou 
acceptest his homage, will love thee till the tomb closes, 
upon both. I, too,” he added with emotion, — “ I, too, 
might love thee! ” 

“ You! ” cried Viola, with the vehemence of a sudden 
impulse of delight, of rapture, which she could not 
suppress; hut the instant after, she would have given 
worlds to recall the exclamation. 

“Yes, Viola, I might love thee; hut in that love 
what sorrow and what change! The flower gives per- 
fume to the rock on whose heart it grows. A little 
while, and the flower is dead; hut the rock still 
endures, — the snow at its breast, the sunshine on its 
summit. Pause, — think well. Danger besets thee yet. 
For some days thou shalt he safe from thy remorseless 
persecutor; hut the hour soon comes when thy only 
security will he in flight. If the Englishman love thee 
worthily, thy honor will he dear to him as his own; if 


ZANONI. 


95 


not, there are yet other lands where love will he truer, 
and virtue less in danger from fraud and force. Fare- 
well ; my own destiny I cannot foresee except through 
cloud and shadow. I know, at least, that we shall meet 
again; hut learn ere then, sweet flower, that there are 
more genial resting-places than the rock.” 

He turned as he spoke, and gained the outer door 
where Gionetta discreetly stood. Zanoni lightly laid 
his hand on her arm. With the gay accent of a jesting 
cavalier, he said, — 

“The Signor Glyndon woos your mistress; he may 
wed her. I know your love for her. Disabuse her of 
any caprice for me. I am a bird ever on the wing. ” 

He dropped a purse into Gionetta’ s hand as he spoke, 
and was gone. 


96 


ZANONI. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Leg Intelligences C^estes se font voir, et se communiquent plus 
volontiers, dans le silence et dans la tranquillite de la solitude. 
On aura done une petite chambre ou un cabinet secret, etc.^ — 
Les Clavlcules de Rabbi Salomon, ebap. 3 ; traduites exactement 
dll texte Hebreu par M. Pierre Morissoneau, Professeur des 
Langues Orientales, et Sectateur de la Philosophie des Sages 
Cabalistes. ( Manuscript Translation. ) 

The palace retained by Zanoni was in one of the less 
frequented quarters of the city. It still stands, noAV 
ruined and dismantled, a monument of the splendor of 
a chivalry long since vanished from Naples, with the 
lordly races of the Norman and the Spaniard. 

As he entered the rooms reserved for his private hours, 
two Indians, in the dress of their country, received him 
at the threshold with the grave salutations of the East. 
They had accompanied him from the far lands in which, 
according to rumor, he had for many years fixed his home. 
But they could communicate nothing to gratify curiosity 
or justify suspicion. They spoke no language but their 
own. With the exception of these two his princely 
retinue was composed of the native hirelings of the city, 
whom his lavish but imperious generosity made the 
implicit creatures of his will. In his house, and in his 
habits, so far as they were seen, there was nothing to 
account for the rumors which were circulated abroad. 

^ Tbe Celestial Intelligences exbibit and explain themselves most 
freely in silence and tbe tranquillity of solitude. On,e will bave 
then a little chamber, or a secret cabinet, etc. 


ZANONI. 


97 


He was not, as we are told of Albertus Magnus or the 
great Leonardo da Vinci, served by airy forms; and no 
brazen image, the invention of magic mechanism, 
communicated to nim the influences of the stars. None 
of the apparatus of the alchemist — the crucible and the 
metals — gave solemnity to his chambers, or accounted 
for his wealth; nor did he even seem to interest him- 
self in those serener studies which might be supposed 
to color his peculiar conversation with abstract notions, 
and often with recondite learning. No books spoke to 
him in his solitude; and if ever he had drawn from 
them his knowledge, it seemed now that the only page 
he read was the wide one of Nature, and that a capa- 
cious and startling memory supplied the rest. Yet was 
there one exception to what in all else seemed customary 
and commonplace, and which, according to the authority 
we have prefixed to this chapter, might indicate the 
follower of the occult sciences. Whether at Borne or 
Naples, or, in fact, wherever his abode, he selected one 
room remote from the rest of the house, which was 
fastened by a lock scarcely larger than the seal of a 
ring, yet which sufficed to baffle the most cunning 
instruments of the locksmith : at least, one of his ser- 
vants, prompted by irresistible curiosity, had made the 
attempt in vain ; and though he had fancied it was tried 
in the most favorable time for secrecy, — not a soul 
near, in the dead of night, Zanoni himself absent from 
home, — yet his superstition, or his conscience, told him 
the reason why the next day the Major Domo quietly 
dismissed him. He compensated himself for this mis- 
fortune by spreading his own story, with a thousand 
amusing exaggerations. He declared that, as he 
approached the door, invisible hands seemed to pluck 
him away; and that when he touched the lock, he was 


98 


ZANONI. 


struck, as by a palsy, to the ground. One surgeon, who 
heard the tale, observed, to the distaste of the wonder- 
mongers, that possibly Zanoni made a dexterous use of 
electricity. Howbeit, this room, once so secured, was 
never entered save by Zanoni himself. 

The solemn voice of Time, from the neighboring 
church at last aroused the lord of the palace from the 
deep and motionless reverie, rather resembling a trance 
than thought, in which his mind was absorbed. 

“It is one more sand out of the mighty hour-glass,” 
said he, murmuringly, “ and yet time neither adds to, 
nor steals from, an atom in the Infinite! Soul of 
mine, the luminous, the Augoeides,^ why descendest 
thou from thy sphere, — why from the eternal, starlike, 
and passionless Serene, shrinkest thou back to the mists 
of the dark sarcophagus? How long, too austerely 
taught that companionship with the things that die 
brings with it but sorrow in its sweetness, hast thou 
dwelt contented with thy majestic solitude? ” 

As he thus murmured, one of the earliest birds that 
salute the dawn broke into sudden song from amidst 
the orange-trees in the garden below his casement; 
and as suddenly, song answered song; the mate, awak- 
ened at the note, gave back its happy answer to the 
bird. He listened; and not the soul he had ques- 

1 Avyoeidrjs, — a word favored by the mystical Platonists, <r(paipa 
^vXV^ avyoeidrjs, orav /urjTC eKTfturjrai eiri ri, firjre eaco avurpexv 
fj.T]T€ (Twi^aVT], oAAo (pcoTi XafXTTif]Tai, (f rr/u a\7jd€iay dpcf. rrjv iraurcoy, 
Kai TTjv ev avrri. — Marc. Ant., lib. 2. — The sense of which beau- 
tiful sentence of the old philosophy, which, as Bayle well observes, 
in his article on Cornelius Agrippa, the modern Quietists have 
(however impotently) sought to imitate, is to the effect that “the 
sphere of the soul is luminous when nothing external has contact 
with the soul itself ; but when lit by its own light, it sees the truth 
of all things and the truth centred in itself.” 


ZANONI. 


99 


tioned, but the heart replied. He rose, and with rest- 
less strides paced the narrow floor. “ Away from 
.this world! ” he exclaimed at length, with an impatient 
tone. “ Can no time loosen its fatal ties ? As the 
attraction that holds the earth in space, is the attraction 
that fixes the soul to earth. Away from the dark gray 
planet! Break, ye fetters: arise, ye wings! ” 

He passed through the silent galleries, and up the 
lofty stairs, and entered the secret chamber. 


ZANpNI. 


m 


CHAPTER V. 

* I and my fellows 

Are ministers of Tate. 

The Tempest. 

The next day Glyndon bent his steps towards Zanoni’s 
palace. The young man’s imagination, naturally 
inflammable, was singularly excited by the little he 
had seen and heard of this strange being, — a spell, he 
could neither master nor account for, attracted him 
towards the stranger. Zanoni’s power seemed myste- 
rious and great, his motives kindly and benevolent, yet 
his manners chilling and repellent. Why at one 
moment reject Glyndon’s acquaintance, at another save 
him from danger ? How had Zanoni thus acquired the 
knowledge of enemies unknown to Glyndon himself? 
His interest was deeply roused, his gratitude appealed 
to ; he resolved to make another effort to conciliate the 
ungracious herbalist. 

The signor was at home, and Glyndon was admitted 
into a lofty saloon, where in a few moments Zanoni 
joined him. 

“ I am come to thank you for your warning last night,” 
said he, “ and to entreat you to complete my obligation 
by informing me of the quarter to which I may look 
for enmity and peril.” 

“You are a gallant,” said Zanoni, with a smile, and 
in the English language, “ and do you know so little of 
the South as not to be aware that gallants have always 
rivals ? ” 


ZANONI. 


101 


Are you serious ? ” said Glyndon, coloring. 

“Most serious. You love Viola Pisani; you have 
for rival one of the most powerful and relentless of the 
Neapolitan princes. Your danger is indeed great.” 

“ But pardon me ! — how came it known to you ? ” 

“ I give no account of myself to mortal man,” replied 
Zanoni, haughtily; “and to me it matters nothing 
whether you regard or scorn my warning.” 

“Well, if I may not question you, he it so; hut' 
at least advise me what to do.” 

“ Would you follow my advice? ” 

“Why not? ” 

“ Because you are constitutionally brave; you are fond 
of excitement and mystery ; you like to be the hero of a 
romance. Were I to advise you to leave Naples, would 
you do so while Naples contains a foe to confront or 
a mistress to pursue ? ” 

“You are right,” said the young Englishman, with 
energy. “No! and you cannot reproach me for such a 
resolution.” 

“ But there is another course left to you : do you love 
Viola Pisani truly and fervently ? — if so, marry her, 
and take a bride to your native land.” 

“Nay,” answered Glyndon, embarrassed; “Viola is 
not of my rank. Her profession, too, is — in short, I 
am enslaved by her beauty , but I cannot wed her. ” 

Zanoni frowned. 

“Your love, then, is but selfish lust, and I advise 
you to your own happiness no more. Young man. Des- 
tiny is less inexorable than it appears. The resources 
of the great Ruler of the Universe are not so scanty and 
so stern as to deny to men the divine privilege of Eree 
Will; all of us can carve out our own way, and God 
can make our very contradictions harmonize with His 


102 


ZANONI. 


solemn ends. You have before you an option. Hon- 
orable and generous love may even now work out your 
happiness, and effect your escape; a frantic and selfish 
passion will but lead you to misery and doom. ” 

“ Do you pretend, then, to read the future"? ” 

“ I have said all that it pleases me to utter. ” 

“While you assume the moralist to me. Signor 
Zanoni,” said Glyndon, with a smile, “are you your- 
self so indifferent to youth and beauty as to act the stoic 
to its allurements "? ’’ 

“ If it were necessary that practice square with pre- 
cept,” said Zanoni, with a bitter smile, “ our monitors 
would be but few. The conduct of the individual can 
affect but a small circle beyond himself ; the permanent 
good or evil that he works to others lies rather in the 
sentiments he can diffuse. His acts are limited and 
momentary; his sentiments may pervade the universe, 
and inspire generations till the day of doom. All our 
virtues, all our laws, are drawn from books and maxims, 
which are sentiments, not from deeds. In conduct, 
Julian had the virtues of a Christian, and Constantine 
the vices of a Pagan. The sentiments of Julian recon- 
verted thousands to Paganism; those of Constantine 
helped, under Heaven’s will, to bow to Christianity the 
nations of the earth. In conduct, the humblest fisher- 
man on yonder sea, who believes in the miracles of San 
Gennaro, may be a better man than Luther; to the 
sentiments of Luther the mind of modern Europe is 
indebted for the noblest revolution it has known. Our 
opinions, young Englishman, are the angel part of us; 
our acts, the earthly.” 

“ You have reflected deeply for an Italian,” said 
Glyndon. 

“ Who told you that I was an Italian % ” 


ZANONI. 103 

Are you not ? And yet, when I hear you speak my 
own language as a native, I — ” 

“Tush!” interrupted Zanoni, impatiently turning 
away. Then, after a pause, he resumed in a mild voice, 
“ Glyndon, do you renounce Viola Pisani? Will you 
take some days to consider what I have said 1 ” 

“ Penounce her, — never ! ” 

“ Then you will marry her ? ” 

“ Impossible! ” 

“ Be it so ; she will then renounce you. I tell you 
that you have rivals. ” 

“Yes; the Prince di ; but I do not fear him.” 

“ You have another whom you will fear more.” 

“ And who is he ? ” 

“ Myself.” 

Glyndon turned pale, and started from his seat. 

“ You, Signor Zanoni ! — you, — and you dare to tell 
me so 1 ” 

“Dare! Alas! there are times when I wish that I 
could fear.” 

These arrogant words were not uttered arrogantly, but 
in a tone of the most mournful dejection. Glyndon was 
enraged, confounded, and yet awed. However, he had 
a brave English heart within his breast, and he recov- 
ered himself quickly. 

“ Signor,” said he’ calmly, “ I am not to be duped by 
these solemn phrases and these mystical assumptions. 
You may have powers which I cannot comprehend or 
emulate, or you may be but a keen impostor.” 

“Well, proceed! ” 

“I mean, then,” continued Glyndon, resolutely, 
though somewhat disconcerted, — “I mean you to un- 
derstand, that, though I am not to be persuaded or 
compelled by a stranger to marry Viola Pisani, I am 


104 


ZANONI. 


not the less determined never tamely to yield her to 
another. ” 

Zanoni looked gravely at the young man, whose spark- 
ling eyes and heightened color testified the spirit to 
support his words, and replied, “So bold! well; it 
becomes you. But take my advice ; wait yet nine days, 
and tell me then if you will marry the fairest and the 
purest creature that ever crossed your path.” 

“ But if you love her, why — why — ” 

“ Why am I anxious that she should wed another ? — 
to save her from mj^’self! Listen to me. That girl, 
humble and uneducated though she he, has in her the 
seeds of the most lofty qualities and virtues. She can 
he all to the man she loves, — all that man can desire 
in wife. Her soul, developed by affection, will elevate 
your own; it will influence your fortunes, exalt your 
destiny ; you will become a great and a prosperous 
man. If, on the contrary, she fall to me, I know not 
what may be her lot ; but I know that there is an ordeal 
which few can pass, and which hitherto no woman has 
survived. ” 

As Zanoni spoke, his face became colorless, and there 
was something in his voice that froze the warm blood 
of the listener. 

“ What is this mystery which surrounds you ? ” 
exclaimed Glyndon, unable to repress his emotion. 
“Are you, in truth, different from other men? Have 
you passed the boundary of lawful knowledge? Are 
you, as some declare, a sorcerer, or only a — ” 

“Hush!” interrupted Zanoni, gently, and with a 
smile of singular but melancholy sweetness ; “ have you 
earned the right to ask me these questions? Though 
Italy still boast an Inquisition, its power is rivelled as 
a leaf which the first wind shall scatter. The days of 


ZANONI. 


105 


torture and persecution are over; and a man may live 
as he pleases, and talk as it suits him, without fear of 
the stake and the rack. Since I can defy persecution, 
pardon me if I do not yield to curiosity.” 

Glyndon blushed, and rose. In spite of his love for 
Viola, and his natural terror of such a rival, he felt him- 
self irresistibly drawn towards the very man he had 
most cause to suspect and dread. He held out his hand 
to Zanoni, saying, “Well, then, if we are to be rivals, 
our swords must settle our rights; till then I would fain 
be friends.” 

“ Friends! You know not what you ask.” 

“ Enigmas again! ” 

“Enigmas!” cried Zanoni, passionately; “ay! can 
you dare to solve them? Not till then could I give you 
my right hand, and call you friend. ” 

“ I could dare everything and all things for the at- 
tainment of superhuman wisdom,” said Glyndon, and 
his countenance was lighted up with wild and intense 
enthusiasm. 

Zanoni observed him in thoughtful silence. 

“ The seeds of the ancestor live in the son,” he mut- 
tered ; “ he may — yet — ” He broke off abruptly ; 
then, speaking aloud, “Go, Glyndon,” said he; “we 
shall meet again, hut I will not ask your answer till the 
hour presses for decision.” 


106 


ZANONI. 


CHAPTER VI. 


*T is certain that this man has an estate of fifty thousand livres, and 
seems to be a person of very great accomplishments. But, then, 
if he’s a wizard, are wizards so devoutly given as this man 
seems to he ? In short, I could make neither head nor tail 
on ’t. — The Count de Gabalis, Translation affixed to the 
second edition of the “ Rape of the Lock.” 

Of all the weaknesses which little men rail against, there 
is none that they are more apt to ridicule than the ten- 
dency to believe. And of all the signs of a corrupt 
heart and a feeble head, the tendency of incredulity is 
the surest. 

Real philosophy seeks rather to solve than to deny. 
While we hear, every day, the small pretenders to 
science talk of the absurdities of alchemy and the dream 
of the Philosopher’s Stone, a more erudite knowledge is 
aware that by alchemists the greatest discoveries in science 
have been made, and much which still seems abstruse, 
had we the key to the mystic phraseology they were com- 
pelled to adopt, might open the way to yet more noble 
acquisitions. The Philosopher’s Stone itself has seemed 
no visionary chimera to some of the soundest chemists 
that even the present century has produced.^ Man cau' 

1 Mr. Disraeli, in his “ Curiosities of Literature ” ( article 
“ Alchem ” ), • after quoting the sanguine judgments of modern 
chemists as to the transmutation of metals, observes of one yet 
greater and more recent than those to w'hich Glyndon’s thoughts 
could have referred, “ Sir Humphry Davy told me that he did 
not consider this undiscovered art as impossible ; but should it 
ever be discovered, it would certainly be useless.” 


ZANONI. 107 

not contradict the Laws of Nature, But are all the laws 
of Nature yet discovered ? 

“ Give me a proof of your art, ” says the rational 
inquirer. “ When I have seen the effect, I will 
endeavor, with you, to ascertain the causes.” 

Somewhat to the above effect were the first thoughts 
of Clarence Glyndon on quitting Zanoni. But Clarence 
Glyndon was no “ rational inquirer. ” The more vague 
and mysterious the language of Zanoni, the more it 
imposed upon him. A proof would have been something 
tangible, with which he would have sought to grapple. 
And it would have only disappointed his curiosity to find 
the supernatural reduced to Nature. He endeavored in 
vain, at some moments rousing himself from credulity to 
the scepticism he deprecated, to reconcile what he had 
heard with the probable motives and designs of an 
impostor. Unlike Mesmer and Cagliostro, Zanoni, 
whatever his pretensions, did not make them a source of 
profit; nor was Glyndon’s position or rank in life suffi- 
cient to render any influence obtained over his mind, 
subservient to schemes, whether of avarice or ambition. 
Yet, ever and anon, with the suspicion of worldly knowl- 
edge, he strove to persuade himself that Zanoni had at 
least some sinister object in inducing him to what his 
English pride and manner of thought considered a derog- 
atory marriage with the poor actress. Might not Viola 
and the Mystic be in league with each other? Might 
not all this jargon of prophecy and menace be but arti- 
fices to dupe him? He felt an unjust resentment 
towards Viola at her having secured such an ally. But 
with that resentment was mingled a natural jealousy. 
Zanoni threatened him with rivalry. Zanoni, who, 
whatever his character or his arts, possessed at least all 
the external attributes that dazzle and command. Impa- 


108 


ZANONI. 


tient of his own doubts, he plunged into the society of 
such acquaintances as he had made at ISTaples, — chiefly 
artists, .like himself, men of letters, and the rich com- 
mercialists, who were already vying with the splendor, 
though debarred from the privileges, of the nobles. 
From these he heard much of Zanoni, already with 
them, as with the idler classes, an object of curiosity and 
speculation. 

He had noticed, as a thing remarkable, that Zanoni 
had conversed with him in English, and with a command 
of the language so complete that he might have passed 
for a native. On the other hand, in Italian, Zanoni was 
equally at ease. Glyndon found that it was the same in 
languages less usually learned by foreigners. A painter 
from Sweden, who had conversed with him, was posi- 
tive that he was a Swede; and a merchant from Con- 
stantinople, who had sold some of his goods to Zanoni, 
professed his conviction that none hut a Turk, or at 
least a native of the East, could have so thoroughly 
mastered the soft Oriental intonations. Yet in all these 
languages, when they came to compare their several 
recollections, there was a slight, scarce perceptible dis- 
tinction, not in pronunciation, nor even accent, but in 
the key and chime, as it were, of the voice, between 
himself and a native. This faculty was one which 
Glyndon called to mind, that sect, whose tenets and 
powers have never been more than most partially 
explored, the Eosicrucians, especially arrogated. He 
remembered to have heard in Germany of the 'work of 
John Bringeret,^ asserting that all the languages of the 
earth were known to the genuine Brotherhood of the 
Rosy Cross. Did Zanoni belong to this mystical Fra- 
ternity, who, in an earlier age, boasted of secrets of 
1 Printed in 1615. 


ZANONI. 


log 

Mrhich the Philosopher’s Stone was hnt the least; who 
considered themselves the heirs of all that the Chal- 
deans, the Magi, the Gymnosophists, and the Platonists 
had taught; and who differed from all the darker Sons 
of Magic in the virtue of their lives, the purity of 
their doctrines, and their insisting, as the foundation 
of all wisdom, on the subjugation of the senses, and the 
intensity of Keligious Paith? — a glorious sect, if they 
lied not! And, in truth, if Zanoni had powers beyond 
the race of worldly sages, they seemed not unworthily 
exercised. The little known of his life was in his favor. 
Some acts, not of indiscriminate, but judicious gener- 
osity and beneficence, were recorded ; in repeating which, 
still, however, the narrators shook their heads, and ex- 
pressed surprise how a stranger should have possessed 
so minute a knowledge of the quiet and obscure distresses 
he had relieved. Two or three sick persons, when aban- 
doned by their physicians, he had visited, and conferred 
with alone. They had recovered : they ascribed to him 
their recovery; yet they could not tell by what medi- 
cines they had been healed. They could only depose 
that he came, conversed with them, and they were 
cured; it usually, however, happened that a deep sleep 
had preceded the recovery. 

Another circumstance was also beginning to he 
remarked, and spoke yet more in his commendation. 
Those with whom he principally associated — the gay, 
the dissipated, the thoughtless, the sinners and publi- 
cans of the more polished world — all appeared rapidly, 
yet insensibly to themselves, to awaken to purer 
thoughts and more regulated lives. Even Cetoxa, the 
prince of gallants, duellists, and gamesters, was no 
longer the same man since the night of the singular 
events which he had related to Glyndon. The first trace 


110 


ZANONI. 


of his reform was in his retirement from the gaming- 
houses; the next was his reconciliation with an heredi- 
tary enemy of his house, whom it had been his constant 
object for the last six years to entangle in such a 
quarrel as might call forth his inimitable manoeuvre of 
the stoccata. Nor when Cetoxa and his young com- 
panions were heard to speak of Zanoni, did it seem that 
this change had been brought about by any sober lectures 
or admonitions. They all described Zanoni as a man 
keenly alive to enjoyment: of manners the reverse of 
formal, — not precisely gay, hut equable, serene, and 
cheerful; ever ready to listen to the talk of others, 
however idle, or to charm all ears with an inexhaustible 
fund of brilliant anecdote and worldly experience. All 
manners, all nations, all grades of men, seemed familiar 
to him. He was reserved only if allusion were ever 
ventured to his birth or history. The more general 
opinion of his origin certainly seemed the more plausi- 
ble. His riches, his familiarity with the languages of 
the Ea.st, his residence in India, a certain gravity which 
never deserted his most cheerful and familiar hours, the 
lustrous darkness of his eyes and hair, and even the 
peculiarities of his shape, in the delicate smallness of 
the hands, and the Arab-like turn of the stately head, 
appeared to fix him as belonging to one at least of the 
Oriental races. And a dabbler in the Eastern tortgues 
even sought to reduce the simple name of Zanoni, which 
a century before had been borne by an inoffensive 
naturalist of Bologna, ^ to the radicals of the extinct lan- 
guage. Zan was unquestionably the Chaldean appella- 
tion for the sun. Even the Greeks, who mutilated 
every Oriental name, had retained the right one in this 


The author of two works on botany and rare plants. 


ZANONI. 


Ill 


case , as the Cretan inscription on the tomb of Zens ' 
significantly showed. As to the rest, the Zan, or Zaun, 
was, with the Sidonians, no uncommon prefix to On. 
Adonis was but another name for Zanonas, whose wor- 
ship in Sidon Hesychius records. To this profound 
and unanswerable derivation Mervale listened with 
great attention, and observed that he now ventured to 
announce an erudite discovery he himself had long since 
made, — namely, that the numerous family of Smiths in 
England were undoubtedly the ancient priests of the 
Phrygian Apollo. “ For,” said he, ‘Avas not Apollo’s 
surname, in Phrygia, Smintheus? How clear all the 
ensuing corruptions of the august name, — Smintheus, 
Smitheus, Smithe, Smith! And even now, I may 
remark that the more ancient branches of that illustrious 
family, unconsciously anxious to approximate at least 
by a letter nearer to the true title, take a pious pleasure 
in writing their names Smithe! ” 

The philologist was much struck with this discovery, 
and begged Mervale ’s permission to note it down as an 
illustration suitable to a work he was about to publish 
on the origin of languages, to be called “Babel,” and 
published in three quartos by subscription. 


1 flSe fifyas Kenai Zau .^ — Cr^il contra Julian, 
a Htre lies great Jove. 


112 


ZANONL 


CHAPTEE VII. 


Learn to be poor in spirit, my son, if you would penetrate that 
sacred night which environs truth. Learn of the Sages to allow 
to the Devils no power in Nature, since the fatal stone has shut 
^em up in the depth of the abyss. Learn of the Philosophers 
always to look for natural causes in all extraordinary events ; 
and when such natural causes are wanting, recur to God. — The 
Count de Gabalis. 

All these additions to his knowledge of Zanoni, picked 
up in the various lounging-places and resorts that he 
frequented, were unsatisfactory to Glyndon. That night 
Viola did not perform at the theatre; and the next day, 
still disturbed by bewildered fancies, and averse to the 
sober and sarcastic companionship of Mervale, Glyndon 
sauntered musingly into the public gardens, and paused 
under the very tree under which he had first heard the 
voice that had exercised upon his mind so singular an 
influence. The gardens were deserted. He threw 
himself on one of the seats placed beneath the shade ; 
and again, in the midst of his reverie, the same cold 
shudder came over him which Zanoni had so distinctly 
defined, and to which he had ascribed so extraordinary 
a cause. 

He roused himself with a sudden effort, and started 
to see, seated next him, a figure hideous enough to have 
personated one of the malignant beings of whom Zanoni 
had spoken. It was a small man, dressed in a fashion 
strikingly at variance with the elaborate costume of the 
day : an affectation of homeliness and poverty approach- 


ZANONI. 


113 


Ing to squalor, in the loose trousers, coarse as a ship^s 
sail ; in the rough jacket, which appeared rent wil- 
fully into holes; and the hlack, ragged, tangled locks 
that streamed from theii confinement under a woollen 
cap, accorded hut ill with other details which spoke of 
comparative wealth. The shirt, open at the throat, was 
fastened by a brooch of gaudy stones ; and two pendent 
massive gold chains announced the foppery of two 
watches. 

The man’s figure, if not absolutely deformed, was yet 
marvellously ill-favored; his shoulders high and square; 
his chest flattened, as if crushed in; his gloveless hands 
■were knotted at the joints, and, large, bony, and mus- 
cular, dangled from lean, emaciated wrists, as if not 
belonging to them. His features had the painful dis- 
tortion sometimes seen in the countenance of a cripple, 
— large, exaggerated, with the nose nearly touching the 
chin; %e eyes small, but glowing with a cunning fire 
as they dwelt on Glyndon ; and the mouth was twisted 
into a grin that displayed rows of jagged, black, broken 
teeth. Yet over this frightful face there still played a 
kind of disagreeable intelligence, an expression at once 
astute and bold; and as Glyndon, recovering from the 
first impression, looked again at his neighbor, he 
blushed at his own dismay, and recognized a Trench 
artist, with whom he had formed an acquaintance, and 
who was possessed of no inconsiderable talents in his 
calling. Indeed, it was to be remarked that this crea- 
ture, whose externals were so deserted by the Graces, 
particularly delighted in designs aspiring to majesty 
and grandeur. Though his coloring was hard and 
shallow, as was that generally of the French school at 
the time, his drawings were admirable for symmetry, 
simple elegance, and classic vigor; at the same time 
8 


114 


ZANONI. 


they unquestionably wanted ideal grace. He was fond 
of selecting subjects from Koman history, rather than 
from the copious world of Grecian beauty, or those still 
more vsublime stories of scriptural record from which 
Raphael and Michael Angelo borrowed their inspirations. 
His grandeur was that not of gods and saints, but 
mortals. His delineation of beauty was that which the 
eye cannot blame and the soul does not acknowledge. 
In a word, as it was said of Dionysius, he was an 
Anthropographos, or Painter of Men. It was also a 
notable contradiction in this person, who was addicted 
to the most extravagant excesses in every passion, 
whether of hate or love, implacable in revenge, and 
insatiable in debauch, that he was in the habit of utter- 
ing the most beautiful sentiments of exalted purity and 
genial philanthropy. The world was not good enough 
for him; he was, to use the expressive German phrase, 
a world-better er ! Nevertheless, his sarcastic often 
seemed to mock the sentiments he uttered, as if it sought 
to insinuate that he was above even the world he would 
construct. 

Finally, this painter was in close correspondence with 
the Republicans of Paris, and was held to be one of 
those missionaries whom, from the earliest period of the 
Revolution, the regenerators of mankind were pleased 
to despatch to the various stales yet shackled, whether 
by actual tyranny or wholesome laws. Certainly, as 
the historian of Italy ^ has observed, there was no cit}'- 
in Italy where these new doctrines would be received 
with greater favor than Naples, partly from the lively 
temper of the people, principally because the most hate- 
ful feudal privileges, however partially curtailed some 
years before by the great minister, Tanuccini, stiil 
1 Botta. 


ZANONI. 


115 


presented so many daily and practical evils as to make 
change wear a more substantial charm than the mere 
and meretricious bloom on the cheek of the harlot. 
Novelty. This man, whom I will call Jean Nicot, 
was, therefore, an oracle among the younger and bolder 
spirits of Naples; and before Glyndon had met Zanoni, 
the former had not been among the least dazzled by 
the eloquent aspirations of the hideous philanthropist. 

“It is so long since ’we have met, cher confrere” 
said Nicot, drawing his seat nearer to Glyndon’s, “ that 
you cannot be surprised that I see you with delight, and 
even take the liberty to intrude on your meditations. 

“They were of no agreeable nature,” said Glyndon; 
“ and never was intrusion more welcome. ” 

“ You will be charmed to hear,” said Nicot, drawing 
several letters from his bosom, “ that the good work 
proceeds with marvellous rapidity. Mirabeau, indeed, 
is no more; but, mort Diahle ! the "French people are 
now a Mirabeau themselves.” With this remark. Mon- 
sieur Nicot proceeded to read and to comment upon 
several animated and interesting passages in his corre- 
spondence, in which the word virtue was introduced 
twenty-seven times, and God not once. And then, 
warmed by the cheering prospects thus opened to him, he 
began to indulge in those anticipations of the future, the 
outline of which we have already seen in the eloquent 
extravagance of Condorcet, All the old virtues were 
dethroned for a new Pantheon ; patriotism was a narrow 
sentiment; philanthropy was to be its successor. No 
love that did not embrace all mankind, as warm for 
Indus and the Pole as for the hearth of home, was 
worthy the breast of a generous man. Opinion was to 
be free as air; and in order to make it so, it was neces- 
sary to exterminate all those whose opinions were not 


116 


ZANONI. 


the same as Mons. Jean Kicot’s. Much of this amused, 
much revolted Glyndon; hut when the painter turned 
to dwell upon a science that all should comprehend, 
and the results of which all should enjoy, — a science 
that, springing from the soil of equal institutions and 
equal mental cultivation, should give to all the races 
of men wealth without labor, and a life longer than the 
Patriarchs’, without care, — then Glyndon listened 
with interest and admiration, not unmixed with awe. 
“ Observe,” said Nicot, “ how much that we now cherish 
as a virtue will then he rejected as meanness. Our 
oppressors, for instance, preach to us of the excellence 
of gratitude. Gratitude, the confession of inferiority! 
What so hateful to a noble spirit as the humiliating 
sense of obligation ? But where there is equality there 
can be no means for power thus to enslave merit. The 
benefactor and the client will alike cease, and — ” 

“ And in the mean time,” said a low voice, at hand, 
— “ in the mean time, Jean Nicot? ” 

The two artists started, and Glyndon recognized 
Zanoni. 

He gazed with a brow of unusual sternness on Nicot, 
who, lumped together as he sat, looked up at him 
askew, and with an expression of fear and dismay upon 
his distorted countenance. 

Ho, ho! Messire Jean Nicot, thou who fearest 
neither God nor Devil, why fearest thou the eye of a 
man ? 

“ It is not the first time I have been a witness to your 
opinions on the infirmity of gratitude,” said Zanoni. 

Nicot suppressed an exclamation, and, after gloomily 
surveying Zanoni with an eye villanous and sinister, 
but full of hate impotent and unutterable, said, “I 
know you not, — what would you of me ? ” 


ZANONI. 


117 


“ Your absence. Leave us! ** 

Nicot sprang forward a step, witli hands clenched, 
and showing his teeth from ear to ear, like a wild beast 
incensed. Zanoni stood motionless, and smiled at 
him in scorn. Nicot halted abruptly, as if fixed and 
fascinated by the look, shivered from head to foot, and 
sullenly, and with a visible effort, as if impelled by a. 
power not his own, turned away. 

Glyndon’s eyes followed him in surprise. 

“ And what know you of this man? ” said Zanoni. 

“ I know him as one like myself, — a follower of art. ” 

“ Of ART ! Do not so profane that glorious word. 
What Nature is to God, art should be to man, — a sub- 
lime, beneficent, genial, and warm creation. That 
wretch may be a painter ^ not an artist.’’ 

'*‘ And pardon me if I ask what you know of one you 
thus disparage ? ” 

“ I know thus much, that you are beneath my care if 
it be necessary to warn you against him; his own lips 
show the hideousness of his heart. Why should I tell 
you of the crimes he has committed ? He speaks 
crime ! ” 

“You do not seem. Signor Zanoni, to be one of the 
admirers of the dawning Revolution. Perhaps you are 
prejudiced against the man because you dislike the 
opinions ? ” 

“ What opinions ? ” 

Glyndon paused, somewhat puzzled to define; but at 
length he said, “Nay, I must wrong you; for you, 
of all men, I suppose, cannot discredit the doctrine that 
preaches the infinite improvement of the human 
species.” 

“You are right; the few in every age improve the 
many; the many now may be as wise as the few were; 


118 


ZANONI. 


but improvement is at a standstill, if you tell me that 
the many now are as wise as the few are. ” 

“ I comprehend you; you will not allow the law of 
universal equality! ” 

“ Law ! If the whole world conspired to enforce the 
falsehood they could not make it law. Level all con- 
ditions to-day, and you only smooth away all obstacles 
to . tyranny to-morrow. A nation that aspires to 
equality is unfit iox freedom. Throughout all creation, 
from the archangel to the worm, from Olympus to the 
pebble, from the radiant and completed planet to the 
nebula that hardens through ages of mist and slime into 
the habitable world, the first law of Nature is 
inequality.” 

‘‘Harsh doctrine, if applied to states. Are the cruel 
disparities of life never to be removed ? ” 

“Disparities of the 'physical life? Oh, let us hope 
so. But disparities of the intellectual and the 'tnoi'al, 
never! hTniversal equality of intelligence, of mind, of 
genius, of virtue! — no teacher left to the world! no 
men wiser, better than others, — were it not an impos- 
sible condition, ivhat a hopeless prospect for human- 
ity ! No; while the world lasts, the sun will gild the 
mountain-top before it shines upon the plain. Diffuse 
all the knowledge the earth contains equally over all 
mankind to-day, and some men will be wiser than the 
rest to-morrow. And this is not a harsh, but a loving 
law, — the real law of improvement; the wiser the few 
in one generation, the wiser will be the multitude the 
next!” 

As Zanoni thus spoke, they moved on through the 
smiling gardens, and the beautiful bay lay sparkling in 
the noontide. A gentle breeze just cooled the sunbeam, 
and stirred the ocean; and in the. inexpressible clearness 


ZANONI. 


119 


of the atmosphere there was something that rejoiced the 
senses. The very soul seemed to grow lighter and purer 
in that lucid air. 

“ And these men, to commence their era of improve- 
ment and equality, are jealous even of the Creator. 
They would deny an intelligence, — a God!” said 
Zanoni, as if involuntarily. “ Are you an artist, and, 
looking on the world, can you listen to such a dogma? 
Between God and genius there is a necessary link, — 
there is almost a correspondent language. Well said 
the Pythagorean, 1 ‘ A good intellect is the chorus of 
divinity.’ ” 

Struck and touched with these sentiments, which he 
little expected to fall from one to whom he ascribed 
those powers which the superstitions of childhood ascribe 
to the darker agencies, Glyndon said: “And yet you 
have confessed that your life, separated from that of 
others, is one that man should dread to share. Is there, 
then, a connection between magic and religion? ” 

“ Magic ! And what is magic ? When the traveller 
beholds in Persia the ruins of palaces and temples, the 
ignorant inhabitants inform him they were the work of 
magicians. What is beyond their own power, the 
vulgar cannot comprehend to be lawfully in the power 
of others. But if by magic you mean a perpetual 
research amongst all that is more latent and obscure in 
Nature, I answer, I profess that magic, and that he who 
does so comes but nearer to the fountain of all belief. 
Knowest thou not that magic was taught in the schools 
of old? But how, and by whom? As the last and 
most solemn lesson, by the Priests who ministered to 
the Temple. 2 And you, who would be a painter, is not 

1 Sextus, the Pythagorean. 

2 Psellus de Dieinon (MS.) 


120 


ZANONI. 


there a magic also in that art you would advance ? Must 
you not, after long study of the Beautiful that has been, 
seize upon new and airy combinations of a beauty that 
is to be? See you not that the grander art, whether 
of poet or of painter, ever seeking for the true, abhors 
the real; that you must seize Nature as her master, not 
lackey her as her slave? You demand mastery over the 
past, a conception of the future. Has not the art that 
is truly noble for its domain the future and the past ? 
You would conjure the invisible beings to your charm; 
and what is painting but the fixing into substance the 
Invisible? Are you discontented with this world? 
This world was never meant for genius! To exist, it 
must create another. What magician can do more ; nay, 
what science can do as much ? There are two avenues 
from the little passions and the drear calamities of 
earth ; both lead to heaven and away from hell, — art and 
science. But art is more godlike than science ; science 
discovers, art creates. You have faculties that may 
command art; be contented with your lot. The astron- 
omer who catalogues the stars cannot add one atom to 
the universe; the poet can call a universe from the 
atom; the chemist may heal with his drugs the infirmi- 
ties of the human form; the painter, or the sculptor, 
fixes into everlasting youth forms divine, which no 
disease can ravage, and no years impair. Renounce 
those wandering fancies that lead you now to myself, 
and now to yon orator of the human race ; to us two , 
who are the antipodes of each other! Your pencil is 
your wand; your canvas may raise Utopias fairer than 
Condorcet dreams of. I press not yet for your decision ; 
but what man of genius ever asked more to cheer his path 
to the grave than love and glory ? 

“ But,” said Glyndon, fixing his eyes earnestly on 


ZANONI. 121 

Zanoni, “ if there be a power to baffle the grave 
itself — ” 

Zanoni’s brow darkened. “And were this so,” he 
said, after a pause, “ would it be so sweet a lot to outlive 
all you loved, and to recoil from every human tie ? Per- 
haps the fairest immortality on earth is that of a noble 
name. ” 

“ You do not answer me, — you equivocate. I have 
read of the long lives far beyond the date common expe- 
rience assigns to man,” persisted Glyndon, “ which some 
of the alchemists enjoyed. Is the golden elixir but a 
fable?” 

“ If not, and these men discovered it, they died, 
because they refused to live ! There may be a mournful 
warning in your conjecture. Turn once more to the 
easel and the canvas! ” 

So "Saying, Zanoni waved his hand, and, with down- 
cast eyes and a slow step, bent his way back into the 
city. 


122 


ZANONL 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The Goddess Wisdom. 

To some she is the goddess great ; 

To some the milch cow of the field; 

Their care is but to calculate 
What butter she will yield. 

From Schiller. 

This last conversation with Zanoni left upon the mind 
of Glyndon a tranquillizing and salutary effect. 

From the confused mists of his fancy glittered forth 
again those happy, golden schemes which part from the 
young ambition of art, to play in the air, to illumine the 
space like rays that kindle from the sun. And with 
these projects mingled also the vision of a love purer 
and serener than his life yet had known. His mind 
went back into that fair childhood of genius, when the 
forbidden fruit is not yet tasted, and we know of no 
land beyond the Eden which is gladdened by an Eve. 
Insensibly before him there rose the scenes of a home, 
with his art sufficing for all excitement, and Viola’s love 
circling occupation with happiness and content; and in 
the midst of these fantasies of a future that might be 
at his command, he was recalled to the present by the 
clear, strong voice of Mervale, the man of common-sense. 

Whoever has studied the lives of persons in whom the 
imagination is stronger than the will, who suspect their 
own knowledge of actual life, and are aware of their 
facility to impressions, will have observed the influ- 
ence which a homely, vigorous, worldly understanding 


Z AN ONI. 


123 


obtains over such natures. It was thus with Glyndon. 
His friend had often extricated him from danger, and 
saved him from the consequences of imprudence; and 
there was something in Mervale’s voice alone that damped 
his enthusiasm, and often made him yet more ashamed of 
noble impulses than weak conduct. For Mervale, though 
a downright honest man, could not sympathize with the 
extravagance of generosity any more than with that of 
presumption and credulity. He walked the straight line 
of life, and felt an equal contempt for the man who 
wandered up the hill-sides, no matter whether to chase 
a butterfly, or to catch a prospect of the ocean. 

“ I will tell you your thoughts, Clarence,” said Mer- 
vale, laughing, “ though I am no Zanoni. I know them 
by the moisture of your eyes, and the half-smile on your 
lips. You are musing upon that fair perdition, — the 
little singer of San Carlo. ” 

The little singer of San Carlo! Glyndon, colored as 
he answered , — • 

“ Would you speak thus of her if she were my wife ? ” 
“No! for then any contempt I might venture to feel 
would be for yourself. One may dislike the duper, but 
it is the dupe that one despises.” 

“ Are you sure that I should be the dupe in such a 
union 1 Where can I find one so lovely and so inno- 
cent, — where one whose virtue has been tried by such 
temptation ? Does even a single breath of slander sully 
the name of Viola Pisani? ” 

“ I know not all the gossip of Naples, and therefore 
cannot answer; but I know this, that in England no one 
would believe that a young Englishman, of good for- 
tune and respectable birth, who marries a singer from 
the theatre of Naples, has not been lamentably taken in. 
I would save you from a fall of position so irretrievable. 


124 


ZANONI. 


Think how many mortifications you will he subjected 
to; how many young men will visit at your house, — 
and how many young wives will as carefully avoid it.” 

“ I can choose my own career, to which commonplace 
society is not essential. I can owe the respect of the 
world to my art, and not to the accidents of birth and 
fortune.” 

“That is, you still persist in your second folly, — 
the absurd ambition of daubing canvas. Heaven forbid 
I should say anything against the laudable industry of 
one who follows such a profession for the sake of sub- 
sistence; hut with means and connections that will 
raise you in life, why voluntarily sink into a mere 
artist? As an accomplishment in leisure moments, it 
is all very well in its way; hut as the occupation of 
existence, it is a frenzy.” 

“ Artists have been the friends of princes. ” 

“ Very rarely so, I fancy, in sober England. There in 
the great centre of political aristocracy, what men respect 
is the practical, not the ideal. Just suffer me to draw 
two pictures of my own. Clarence Glyndon returns to 
England; he marries a lady of fortune equal to his own, 
of friends and parentage that advance rational ambition. 
Clarence Glyndon, thus a wealthy and respectable man, 
of good talents, of hustling energies then concentrated, 
enters into practical life. He has a house at which he 
can receive those whose acquaintance is both advantage 
and honor; he has leisure which he can devote to use- 
ful studies; his reputation, built on a solid base, grows 
in men’s mouths. He attaches himself to a party; he 
enters political life; and new connections serve to pro- 
mote his objects. At the age of five-and-forty, what, 
in all probability, may Clarence Glyndon be? Since 
you are ambitious, I leave that question for you to 


ZANONL 


125 


decide! Now turn to the other picture. Clarence 
Glyndon returns to England with a wife who can bring 
him no money, unless he lets her out on the stage ; so 
handsome, that every one asks who she is, and every 
one hears, — the celebrated singer, Pisaiii. Clarence 
Glyndon shuts himself up to grind colors and paint 
pictures in the grand historical ‘school, which nobody 
buys. There is even a prejudice against him, as not 
having studied in the Academy , — as being an amateur. 
Who is Mr. Clarence Glyndon ? Oh, the celebrated 
Pisani’s husband! What else? Oh, he exhibits those 
large pictures! Poor man! they have merit in their 
way; but Teniers and Watteau are more convenient,* 
and almost as cheap. Clarence Glyndon, with an easy 
fortune while single, has a large family which his for- 
tune, unaided by marriage, can just rear up to callings 
more plebeian than his own. He retires into the coun- 
try, to save and to paint; he grows slovenly and discon- 
tented; ‘ the world does not appreciate him,’ he says, 
and he runs away from the world. At the age of forty- 
five what will be Clarence Glyndon? Your ambition 
shall decide that question also ! ” 

“If all men were as worldly as you,” said Glyndon, 
rising, “ there would never have been an artist or a 
poet! ” 

“Perhaps we should do just as well without them,” 
answered Mervale. “ Is it not time to think of dinner? 
'The mullets here are remarkably fine ! ” 


126 


ZANONL 


CHAPTER IX. 

Wollt ihr hoch auf ihren Flugeln schweben, 

Werft die Angst des Irdischen von euch ! 

Fliehet aus dem engen durapfen Leben 

In des Ideales Reich ! 

Das Ideal und das Leben. 

Wouldst thou soar heavenward on its joyous wing ? 

Cast off the earthly burden of the Real ; 

High from this cramped and dungeoned being, spring 
• Into the realm of the Ideal. 

As some injudicious master lowers and vitiates the 
taste of the student by fixing his attention to what he 
falsely calls the Natural, but which, in reality, is the 
Commonplace, and understands not that beauty in art 
is created by what Raphael so well describes, — namely, 
the idea of beauty in the painter’s own mind; and 
that in every art, whether its plastic expression be 
found in words or marble, colors or sounds, the servile 
imitation of Nature is the work of journeymen and 
tyros, — so in conduct the man of the world vitiates and 
lowers the bold enthusiasm of loftier natures by the 
perpetual reduction of whatever is generous and trustful 
to all that is trite and coarse. A great German poet has 
well defined the distinction between discretion and the 
larger wisdom. In the last there is a certain rashness 
which the first disdains, — 

“ The purblind see but the receding shore, 

Not that to which the bold wave wafts them o’er,” 

Yet in this logic of the prudent and the worldly there 
is often a reasoning unanswerable of its kind. 


ZANONI. 


127 


You must have a feeling, — a faith in whatever is 
self-sacrificing and divine, whether in religion or in art, 
in glory or in love ; or Common-sense will reason you 
out of the sacrifice, and a syllogism will debase the 
Di^'ine to an article in the market. 

Every true critic in art, from Aristotle and Pliny, 
from Winkelman and Vasari to Reynolds and Fuseli, 
has sought to instruct the painter that Nature is not to 
be copied, but exalted ; that the loftiest order of art, 
selecting only the loftiest combinations, is the per- 
petual struggle of Humanity to approach the gods. 
The great painter, as the great author, embodies 
what is possible to man^ it is true, but what is not 
common to mankind. There is truth in Hamlet; in 
Macbeth, and his witches; in Desdemona; in Othello; 
in Prospero, and in Caliban; there is truth in the car- 
toons of Raphael; there is truth in the Apollo, the 
Antinotis, and the Laocoon. But you do not meet the 
originals of the words, the cartoons, or the marble, in 
Oxford Street or St. James’s. All these, to return to 
Raphael, are the creatures of the idea in the artist’s 
mind. This idea is not inborn; it has come from an 
intense study. But that study has been of the ideal that 
can be raised from the positive and the actual into gran- 
deur and beauty. The commonest model becomes full 
of exquisite suggestions to him who has formed this 
idea; a Venus of flesh and blood would be vulgarized 
by the imitation of him who has not. 

When asked where he got his models, Guido sum- 
moned a common porter from his calling, and drew from 
a mean original a head of surpassing beauty. It resem- 
bled the porter, but idealized the porter to the hero. 
It was true, but it was not real. There are critics who 
will tell you that the Boor of Teniers is more true to 


128 


ZANONI. 


Nature than the Porter of Guido! The commonplaces 
public scarcely understand the idealizing principle, 
even in art; for high art is an acquired taste. 

But to come to my comparison. Still less is the 
kindred principle comprehended in conduct. And the 
advice of worldly prudence would as often deter from the 
risks of virtue as from the punishments of vice ; yet in 
conduct, as in art, there is an idea of the great and 
beautiful, by which men should exalt the hackneyed 
and the trite of life. Now Glyndon felt the sober 
prudence of Mervale’s reasonings; he recoiled from the 
probable picture placed before him, in his devotion to 
the one master-talent he possessed, and the one master- 
passion that, rightly directed, might purify his whole 
being as a strong wind purifies the air. 

But though he could not bring himself to decide 
in the teeth of so rational a judgment, neither could he 
resolve at once to abandon the pursuit of Viola. Fearful 
of being influenced by Zanoni’s counsels and his own 
heart, he had for the last two days shunned an interview 
with the young actress. But after a night following his 
last conversation with Zanoni, and that we have just 
recorded with Mervale, — a night colored by dreams so 
distinct as to seem prophetic, dreams that appeared so 
to shape his future according to the hints of Zanoni 
that he could have fancied Zanoni himself had sent them 
from the house of sleep to haunt his pillow, — he 
resolved once more to seek Viola; and though without a 
definite or distinct object, he yielded himself up to the 
.mpulse of his heart. 


ZANONL 


129 


CHAPTER X! 

O sollecito dubbio e fredda tema 
Che pensando Taccresci.! 

Tasso, Canzone vi. 

She was seated outside her door, — the young actress! 
The sea before her in that heavenly bay seemed literally 
to sleep in the arms of the shore; while, to the right, 
not far off, rose the dark and tangled crags to which the 
traveller of to-day is duly brought to gaze on the tomb 
of Virgil, or compare with the cavern of Posilipo the arch- 
way of Highgate Hill. There were a few fishermen 
loitering by the cliffs, on which their nets were hung to 
dry; and at a distance the sound of some rustic pipe 
(more common at that day than at this), mingled now 
and then with the bells of the lazy mules, broke the 
voluptuous silence, — the silence of declining noon 
on the shores of Naples; never, till you have enjoyed 
it, never, till you have felt its enervating but delicious 
charm, believe that you can comprehend all the meaning 
of the Dolce far niente ; ^ and when that luxury has been 
known, when you have breathed that atmosphere of 
fairy-land, then you will no longer wonder why the 
heart ripens into fruit so sudden and so rich beneath 
the rosy skies and the glorious sunshine of the South. 

The eyes of the actress were fixed on the broad blue 
deep beyond. In the unwonted negligence of her dress 
might be traced the abstraction of her mind. Her beau- 
tiful hair was gathered up loosely, and partially ban- 

1 O anxious doubt and chilling fear that grows by thinking, 

2 The pleasure of doing nothing. 

9 


130 


ZANONI. 


daged by a kerchief whose purple color served to deepen 
the golden hue of her tresses. A stray curl escaped 
and fell down the graceful neck. A loose morning- 
robe, girded by a sash, left the breeze, that came ever 
and anon from the sea, to die upon the bust half dis- 
closed; and the tiny slipper, that Cinderella might have 
worn, seemed a world too wide for the tiny foot which it 
scarcely covered. It might be the heat of the day that 
deepened the soft bloom of the cheeks, and gave an 
unwonted languor to the large, dark eyes. In all the 
pomp of her stage attire, — in all the flush of excitement 
before the intoxicating lamps, — never had Viola looked 
so lovely. 

By the side of the actress, and filling up the thresh- 
old, stood Gionetta, with her arms thrust to the elbow 
in two huge pockets on either side of her gown. 

“ But I assure you,” said the nurse, in that sharp, 
quick, ear-splitting tone in which the old women of the 
South are more than a match for those of the North, — 
“ but I assure you, my darling, that there is not a finer 
cavalier in all Naples, nor a more beautiful, than this 
Inglese ; and I am told that all these Inglesi are much 
richer than they seem. Though they have no trees in 
their country, poor people! and instead of twenty-four 
they have only twelve hours to the day, yet I hear that 
they shoe their horses with scudi; and since they 
cannot (the poor heretics!) turn grapes into wine, for 
they have no grapes, they turn gold into physic, and 
take a glass or two of pistoles whenever they are troubled 
with the colic. But you don’t hear me, little pupil of 
my eyes, — you don’t hear me! " 

“ And these things are whispered of Zanoni! ” said 
Viola, half to herself, and unheeding Gionetta’s eulo- 
gies on Glyndon and the English. 


ZANONI. 


131 


** Blessed Maria! do not talk of this terrible Zanoni.. 
You may be sure that his beautiful face, like bis yet 
more beautiful pistoles, is only witchcraft. I look at 
the money be gave me the other night, every quarter 
of an hour, to see whether it has not turned into 
pebbles.” 

“ Do you then really believe,” said Viola, with timid 
earnestness, “ that sorcery still exists? ” 

“ Believe ! Do I believe in the blessed San Gen- 
naro? How do you think he cured old Filippo the 
fisherman, when the doctor gave him up? How do you 
think he has managed himself to live at least these three 
hundred years ? How do you think he fascinates every 
one to his bidding with a look, as the vampires do ? ” 

“ Ah, is this only witchcraft ? It is like it, — it must 
be! ” murmured Viola, turning very pale. Gionetta 
herself was scarcely more superstitious than the daugh- 
ter of the musician. And her very innocence, chilled 
at the strangeness of virgin passion, might well ascribe 
to magic what hearts more experienced would have 
resolved to love. 

“And then, why has this great Prince di been 

so terrified by him ? Why has he ceased to persecute 
us ? Why has he been so quiet and still ? Is there no 
sorcery in all that? ” 

“Think you, then,” said Viola, with sweet inconsis- 
tency, “ that I owe that happiness and safety to his pro- 
tection? Oh, let me so believe! Be silent, Gionetta ! 
Why have I only thee and my own terrors to consult ? 
O beautiful sun! ” and the girl pressed her hand to her 
heart with wild energy ; “ thou lightest every spot but 
this. Go, Gionetta! leave me alone, — leave me! ” 

“ And indeed it is time I should leave you; for the 
polenta will be spoiled, and you have eat nothing all 


132 


ZANONI. 


day. If you don’t eat you will lose your beauty, my 
darling, and then nobody will care f-.r you. Nobody 
cares for us when we grow ugly, — I know that; and then 
you must, like old Gionetta, get some Viola of your own 
to spoil. I ’ll go and see to the polenta.” 

Since I have known this man,” said the girl, half 
aloud, — “since his dark eyes have haunted me, I 
am no longer the same. I long to escape from myself, 

— to glide with the sunbeam over the hill-tops; to 
become something that is not of earth. Phantoms float 
before me at night; and a fluttering, like the wing of a 
bird, within my heart, seems as if the spirit were terri- 
fied, and would break its cage.” 

While murmuring these incoherent rhapsodies, a step 
that she did not hear approached the actress, and a light 
hand touched her arm. 

“ Viola! — bellissima ! — Viola! ” 

She turned, and saw Glyndon. The sight of his fair 
young face calmed her at once. His presence gave her 
pleasure. 

“Viola,” said the Englishman, taking her hand, and 
drawing her again to the bench from which she had 
risen, as he seated himself beside her, “ you shall hear 
me speak! You must know already that I love thee! 
It has not been pity or admiration alone that has led 
me ever and ever to thy dear side ; reasons there may 
have been why I have not spoken, save by my eyes,, 
before ; but this day — I know not how it is — I feel a 
more sustained and settled courage to address thee, and 
learn the happiest or the worst. I have rivals, I know, 

— rivals who are more powerful than the poor artist; 
are they also more favored % ” 

Viola blushed faintly; but her countenance was grave 
and distressed. Looking down, and marking some 


Z AN ONI. 


133 


hieroglyphical figures in the dust with the point of her 
slipper, she said, with some hesitation, and a vain 
attempt to he gay, “ Signor, whoever wastes his thoughts 
on an actress must submit to have rivals. It is our 
unhappy destiny not to he sacred even to ourselves.” 

“ But you do not love this destiny, glittering though 
it seem ; your heart is not in the vocation which your 
gifts adorn.” 

"Ah, no!” said the actress, her eyes filling with 
tears. " Once I loved to he the priestess of song and 
music ; now I feel only that it is a miserable lot to be 
slave to a multitude. ” 

‘Fly, then, with me,” said the artist, passionately; 
“ 4dit forever the calling that divides that heart I would 
have all my own. Share my fate now and forever, — my 
pride, my delight, my ideal! Thou shalt inspire my 
canvas and my song; thy beauty shall be made at once 
holy and renowned. In the galleries of princes, crowds 
shall gather round the effigy of a Venus or a Saint, and 
a whisper shall break forth, ‘It is Viola Pisani! ’ Ah! 
Viola, I adore thee; tell me that I do not worship in 
vain. ” 

"Thou art good and fair,” said Viola, gazing on her 
lover, as he pressed nearer to her, and clasped her hand 
in his; " but what should I give thee in return*? ” 

" Love, love, — only love ! ” 

" A sister’s love ? ” 

‘‘ Ah, speak not with such cruel coldness! ” 

‘‘It is all I have for thee. Listen to me, signor: 
when I look on your face, when I hear your voice, a 
certain serene and tranquil calm creeps over and lulls 
thoughts, — oh, how feverish, how wild! When thou 
art gone, the day seems a shade more dark; but the 
shadow soon flies. I miss thee not; I think not of thee; 


134 


Z AX ONI. 


no, I love thee not; and I will give myself only where 
I love.” 

“ But I would teach thee to love me ; fear it not. 
Nay, such love as thou describest, in our tranquil cli- 
mates, is the love of innocence and youth.” 

“ Of innocence ! ” said Viola. “ Is it so ? Perhaps — ” 
She paused, and added, with an effort, " Foreigner I 
and wouldst thou wed the orphan? Ah, thou dX least 
art generous! It is not the innocence thou wouldst 
destroy! ” 

Glyndon drew back, conscience-stricken. 

“ No, it may not be! ” she said, rising, but not con- 
scious of the thoughts, half of shame, half suspicion, 
that passed through the mind of her lover. “ Leave me, 
and forget me. You do not understand, you could not 
comprehend, the nature of her whom you think to love. 
From my childhood upward, I have felt as if I were 
marked out for some strange and preternatural doom ; as 
if I were singled from my kind. This feeling (and, 
oh ! at times it is one of delirious and vague delight, at 
others of the darkest gloom) deepens within me day by 
day. It is like the shadow of twilight, spreading 
slowly and solemnly around. My hour approaches: a 
little while, and it will be night! ” 

As she spoke, Glyndon listened with visible emotion 
and perturbation. “Viola!” he exclaimed, as she 
ceased, “ your words more than ever enchain mato you. 
As you feel, I feel. I, too, have been ever haunted 
with a chill and unearthly foreboding. Amidst the 
crowds of men I have felt alone. In all my pleasures, 
my toils, my pursuits, a warning voice has murmured 
in my ear, ‘ Time has a dark mystery in store for thy 
manhood.’ When you spoke, it was as the voice of my 
own soul.” 


ZANONI. 


135 


Viola gazed upon him in wonder and fear. Her 
countenance was as white as marble; and those features, 
so divine in their rare symmetry, might have served the 
Greek with a study for the Pythoness, when, from the 
mystic cavern and the bubbling spring, she first hears 
the voice of the inspiring god. Gradually the rigor 
and tension of that wonderful face relaxed, the color 
returned, the pulse beat: the heart animated the 
frame. 

“ Tell me,” she said, turning partially aside, — “ tell 
me, have you seen — do you know — a stranger in this 
city, — one of whom wild stories are afloat? ” 

“You speak of Zanoni? I have seen him: I know 
him, — and you? Ah, he, too, would be my rival! — 
he, too, would bear thee from mM ” 

“ You err,” said Viola, hastily, and with a deep sigh; 
“ he pleads for you : he informed me of your love ; he 
besought me not — not to reject it.” 

“ Strange being 1 incomprehensible enigma ! Why 
did you name him ? ” 

“Why! ah, I would have asked whether, when you 
first saw him, the foreboding, the instinct, of which 
you spoke, came on you more fearfully, more intelligibly 
than before; whether you felt at once repelled from him, 
yet attracted towards him; whether you felt,” and 
the actress spoke with hurried animation , “ that with 
HIM was connected the secret of your life ? ” 

“All this I felt,” answered Glyndon, in a trembling 
voice, “ the first time I was in his presence. Though 
all around me was gay, — music, amidst lamp-lit trees, 
light converse near, and heaven without a cloud above, 
— my knees knocked together, my hair bristled, and my 
blood curdled like ice. Since then he has divided my 
thoughts with thee.” 


136 


ZANONI. 


more, no more! ” said Viola, in a stifled tone; 
there must be the hand of fate in this. I can speak 
to you no more now. Farewell! ” She sprung past 
him into the house, and closed the door. Glyndon did 
not follow her, nor, strange as it may seem, was he so 
inclined. The thought and recollection of that moon- 
lit hour in the gardens, of the strange address of 
Zanoni, froze up all human passion. Viola herself, if 
not forgotten, shrunk back like a shadow into the 
recesses of his breast. He shivered as he stepped into 
the sunlight, and musingly retraced his steps into the 
more populous parts of that liveliest of Italian cities. 


BOOK III. 


THEURGIA. 


CHAPTER I. 

But that which especially distinguishes the brotherhood is their 
marvellous knowledge of all the resources of medical art. They 
work not by charms, but simples. — MS. Account of the Origin 
and Attributes of the true Rosicrucians, by J. Von D . 

At this time it chanced that Yiola had the opportunity 
to return the kindness shown to her by the friendly 
musician whose -house had received and sheltered her 
when first left an orphan on the world. Old Bernard! 
had brought up three sons to the same profession as 
himself, and they had lately left Naples to seek their 
fortunes in the wealthier cities of Northern Europe, 
where the musical market was less overstocked. There 
was only left to glad the household of his aged wife 
and himself, a lively, prattling, dark-eyed girl of some 
eight years old, the child of his second son, whose 
m-other had died in giving her birth. It so happened 
that, about a month previous to the date on which our 
story has now entered, a paralytic affection had disabled 
Bernard! from the duties of his calling. He had been 
always a social, harmless, improvident, generous fellow, 
— living on his gains from day to day, as if the day of 
sickness and old age never was to arrive. Though he 


138 


ZANONI. 


received a small allowance for his past services, it ill 
sufficed for his wants : neither ‘was . he free from debt. 
Poverty stood at his hearth, — when Viola’s grateful 
smile and liberal hand came to chase the grim fiend 
away. But it is not enough to a heart truly kind to 
send and give; more charitable is it to visit and con- 
sole. “Forget not thy father’s friend.” So almost 
daily went the bright idol of Naples to the house of 
Bernard!. Suddenly a heavier affliction than either 
poverty or the palsy befell the old musician. His grand- 
child, his little Beatrice, fell ill, suddenly and danger- 
ously ill, of one of those rapid fevers common to the 
South; and Viola was summoned from her strange and 
fearful reveries of love or fancy, to the sick-bed of the 
young sufferer. 

The child was exceedingly fond of Viola, and the old 
people thought that her mere presence would bring 
healing; but when Viola arrived, Beatrice was insensible. 
Fortunately there was no performance- that evening at 
San Carlo, and she resolved to stay the night and partake 
its fearful cares and dangerous vigil. 

But during the night the child grew worse, the phy- 
sician (the leechcraft has never been very skilful at 
Naples) shook his powdered head, kept his aromatics at 
his nostrils, administered his palliatives, and departed. 
Old Bernard! seated himself by the bedside in stern 
silence; here was the last tie that bound him to life. 
Well, let the anchor break and the battered ship go 
down! It was an iron resolve, more fearful than sor- 
row. An old man, with one foot in the grave, watch- 
ing by the couch of a dying child, is one of the most 
awful spectacles in human calamities. The wife was 
more active, more bustling, more hopeful, and more 
tearful. Viola took heed of all three. But towards 


Z AN ONI. 


139 


dawn, Beatrice’s state became so obviously alarming, 
that Viola herself began to despair. At this time she 
saw the old woman suddenly rise from before the image 
of the saint at which she had been kneeling, wrap her- 
self in her cloak and hood, and quietly quit the chamber. 
Viola stole after her. 

“ It is cold for thee, good mother, to brave the air; let 
me go for the physician ? ” 

“ Child, I am not going to him. I have heard of one 
in the city who has been tender to the poor, and who, 
they say, has cured the sick when physicians failed. I 
will go and say to him , ‘ Signor, we are beggars in all 
else, but yesterday we were rich in love. We are at the 
close of life, but we lived in our grandchild’s childhood. 
Give us back our wealth, — give us back our youth. Let 
us die blessing God that the thing we love survives us. ’ ” 

She was gone. Why did thy heart beat, Viola? 
The infant’s sharp cry of pain called her back to the 
couch; and there still sat the old man, unconscious of 
his wife’s movements, not stirring, his eyes glazing fast 
as they watched the agonies of that slight frame. By 
degrees the wail of pain died into a low moan, — the 
convulsions grew feebler, but more frequent; the glow 
of fever faded into the blue, pale tinge that settles into 
the last bloodless marble. 

The daylight came broader and clearer through the 
casement; steps were heard on the stairs, — the old 
woman entered hastily; she rushed to the bed, cast a 
glance on the patient, “ She lives yet, signor, she 
lives! ” 

Viola raised her eyes, — the child’s head was pillowed 
on her bosom, — and she beheld Zanoni. He smiled 
on her with a tender and soft approval, and took the 
infant from her arms. Yet even then, as she saw him 


140 


ZANONI. 


bending silently over that pale face, a superstitious fear 
mingled with her hopes. “ Was it by lawful — by holy 
art that — ” her self-questioning ceased abruptly; for 
his dark eye turned to her as if he read her soul, and 
his aspect accused her conscience for its suspicion, for 
it spoke reproach not unmingled with disdain. 

“ Be comforted, ” he said, gently turning to the old 
man, “ the danger is not beyond the reach of human 
skill ; ” and, taking from his bosom a small crystal 
vase, he mingled a few drops with water. No sooner 
did this medicine moisten the infant’s lips, than it 
seemed to produce an astonishing effect. The color 
revived rapidly on the lips and cheeks ; in a few 
moments the sufferer slept calmly, and with the regular 
breathing of painless sleep. And then the old man 
rose, rigidly, as a corpse might rise, — looked down, 
listened, and creeping gently away, stole to the corner 
of the room, and wept, and thanked Heaven! 

Now, old Bernard! had been, hitherto, but a cold 
believer; sorrow had never before led him aloft from 
earth. Old as he was, he had never before thought as 
the old should think of death, — that endangered life of 
the young had wakened up the careless soul of age. 
Zanoni whispered to the wife, and she drew the old 
man quietly from the room. 

“ Dost thou fear to leave me an hour with thy charge, 
Viola ? Thinkest thou still that this knowledge is of 
the Fiend ? ” 

“ Ah,” said Viola, humbled and yet rejoiced, “ forgive 
me, forgive me, signor. Thou biddest the young live 
and the old pray. My thoughts never shall wrong thee 
more! ” 

Before the sun rose, Beatrice was out of danger; at 
noon Zanoni escaped from the blessings of the aged 


ZANONL 141 

pair, and as he closed the door of the house, he found 
Viola awaiting him without. 

She stood before him timidly, her hands crossed 
meekly on her bosom, her downcast eyes swimming 
with tears. 

“ Do not let me be the only one you leave unhappy ! ” 
“ And what cure can the herbs and anodynes effect for 
thee ? If thou canst so readily believe ill of those who 
have aided and yet would serve thee, thy disease is of 
the heart; and — nay, weep not! nurse of the sick, and 
comforter of the sad, I should rather approve than chide 
thee. Forgive thee! Life, that ever needs forgiveness, 
has, for its first duty, to forgive. ’’ 

“No, do not forgive me yet. I do not deserve a 
pardon ; for even now, while I feel how ungrateful I 
was to believe, suspect, aught injurious and false to my 
preserver, my tears flow from happiness, not remorse. 
Oh! ” she continued, with a simple fervor, unconscious, 
in her innocence and her generous emotions, of all the 
secrets she betrayed, — “ thou knowest not how bitter it 
was to believe thee not more good, more pure, moi'e 
sacred than all the world. And when I saw thee, — the 
wealthy, the noble, coming from thy palace to minister 
to the sufferings of the hovel, — ■ when I heard those 
blessings of the poor breathed upon thy parting foot- 
steps, I felt my very self exalted, — good in thy good- 
ness, noble at least in those thoughts that did not wrong 
thee.” 

“And thinkest thou, Viola, that in a mere act of 
science there is so much virtue 1 The commonest leech 
will tend the sick for his fee. Are prayers and bless- 
ings a less reward than gold ? ” 

“And mine, then, are not worthless? Thou wilt 
accept of mine ? ” 


142 


ZANONI. 


Ah, Viola! ” exclaimed Zanoni, with a sudden pas- 
sion, that covered her face with blushes, “ thou only, 
methinks, on all the earth, hast the power to wound or 
delight me ! ” He checked himself, and his face became 
grave and sad. “ And this,” he added, in an altered 
tone, because, if thou wouldst heed my counsels, 
methinks I could guide a guileless heart to a happy 
fate.” 

“ Thy counsels ! I will obey them all. Mould me 
to what thou wilt. In thine absence, I am as a child 
that fears every shadow in the dark; in thy presence, 
my soul expands, and the whole world seems calm with 
a celestial noonday. Do not deny to me that presence. 
I am fatherless and ignorant and alone ! ” 

Zanoni averted his face, and, after a moment’s silence, 
replied calmly, — 

“ Be it so. Sister, I will visit thee again! ” 


ZANONI. 


143 


CHAPTER II. 

Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy. 

Shakespeare. 

Who so happy as Viola now! A dark load was lifted 
from her heart: her step seemed to tread on air; she 
would have sung for very delight as she went gayly 
home. It is such happiness to the pure to love, — but 
oh, such more than happiness to believe in the worth of 
the one beloved. Between them there might be human 
obstacles, — wealth, rank, man’s little world. But there 
was no longer that dark gulf which the imagination 
recoils to dwell on, and which separates forever soul 
from soul. He did not love her in return. Love her! 
But did she ask for love? Did she herself love? No; 
or she would never have been at once so humble and so 
bold. How merrily the ocean murmured in her ear; 
how radiant an aspect the commonest passer-by seemed 
to wear! She gained her home, — she looked upon the 
tree, glancing, with fantastic branches, in the sun. 
“Yes, brother mine! ” she said, laughing in her joy, 
“ like thee, I have struggled to the light! ” 

• She had never hitherto, like the more instructed 
Daughters of the North, accustomed herself to that 
delicious Confessional, the transfusion of thought to 
writing. Now, suddenly, her heart felt an impulse; a 
new-born instinct, that bade it commune with itself, 
bade it disentangle its web of golden fancies, — made 
her wish to look upon her inmost self as in a glass. 


144 


ZANONI. 


Upsprung from the embrace of Love and Soul — the 
Eros and the Psyche — their beautiful offspring, 
Genius! She blushed, she sighed, she trembled as she 
wrote. And from the fresh world that she had built for 
herself, she was awakened to prepare for the glittering 
stage. How dull became the music, how dim the scene, 
so exquisite and so bright of old. Stage, thou art the 
Fairy Land to the vision of the worldly. Fancy, whose 
music is not heard by men, whose scenes shift not by 
mortal hand, as the stage to the present world, art thou 
to the future and the past! 


ZANONI. 


145 


CHAPTER III. 

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes. 

Shakespeabe. 

The next day, at noon, Zanoni visited Viola; and the 
next day and the next and again the next, — days that 
to her seemed like a special time set apart from the rest 
of life. And yet he never spoke to her in the language 
of flattery, and almost of adoration, to which she had 
been accustomed. Perhaps his very coldness, so gentle 
as it was, assisted to this mysterious charm. He talked 
to her much of her past life, and she was scarcely 
surprised (she now never thought of terror) to perceive 
how much of that past seemed known to him. 

He made her speak to him of her father; he made her 
recall some ,of the airs of Pisani^s wild music. And 
those airs seemed to charm and lull him into reverie. 

“As music was to the musician,” said he, “may 
science be to the wise. Your father looked abroad in 
the world; all was discord to the fine sympathies that 
he felt with the harmonies that daily and nightly float 
to the throne of Heaven. Life, with its noisy ambition 
and its mean passions, is so poor and base! Out of his 
soul he created the life and the world for which his soul 
was fitted. Viola, thou art the daughter of that life, 
and wilt he the denizen of that world. ” 

In his earlier visits he did not speak of Glyndon. 
The day soon came on which he renewed the subject. 
And so trustful, obedient, and entire was the allegiance 
10 


146 


ZANONI. 


that Viola now owned to his dominion, that, unwel' 
come as that subject was, she restrained her heart, and 
listened to him in silence. 

At last he said, “ Thou hast promised thou wilt obey 
my counsels, and if, Viola, I shou d ask thee, nay adjure, 
to accept this stranger’s hand, and share his fate, should 
he offer to thee such a lot, — wouldst thou refuse ? ” 

And then she pressed back the tears that gushed to her 
eyes; and with a strange pleasure in the midst of pain, — 
the pleasure of one who sacrifices heart itself to the one 
who commands that heart, — she answered falteringly, 
“ If thou canst ordain it, why — ” 

“ Speak on. ” 

“ Dispose of me as thou wilt! ” 

Zanoni stood in silence for some moments : he saw the 
struggle which the girl thought she concealed so well ; 
he made' an involuntary movement towards her, and 
pressed her hand to his lips; it was the first time he had 
ever departed even so far from a certain austerity which 
perhaps made her fear him and her own thoughts the 
less. 

“ Viola,” said he, and his voice trembled, “ the danger 
that I can avert no more, if thou linger still in Naples, 
comes hourly near and near to thee ! On the third day 
from this thy fate must be decided. I accept thy prom- 
ise. Before the last hour of that day, come what may, 
I shall see thee again, here^ at thine own house. Till 
then, farewell! ” 


ZANONI. 


147 


CHAPTER IV. 

Between two worlds life hovers like a star 

*Twixt night and morn. 

Byron. 

When Glyndon left Viola, as recorded in the concluding 
chapter of the second division of this work, he was 
absorbed again in those mystical desires and conjectures 
which the haunting recollection of Zanoni always served 
to create. And as he wandered through the streets, he 
was scarcely conscious of his own movements till, in the 
mechanism of custom, he found himself in the midst of 
one of the noble collections of pictures which form the 
boast of those Italian cities whose glory is in the past. 
Thither he had been wont, almost daily, to repair, for 
the gallery contained some of the finest specimens of a 
master especially the object of his enthusiasm and 
study. There, before the works of Salvator, he had 
often paused in deep and earnest reverence. The strik- 
ing characteristic of that artist is the Vigor of Will; 
void of the elevated idea of abstract beauty, which fur- 
nishes a model and archetype to the genius of more 
illustrious order, the singular energy of the man hews 
out of the rock a dignity of his own. His images have 
the majesty, not of the god, hut the savage; utterly free, 
like the sublimer schools, from the common-place of 
imitation, — apart, with them, from the conventional 
littleness of the Real, — he grasps the imagination, and 
compels it to follow him, not to the heaven, but through 


148 


ZANONI. 


all that is most wild and fantastic upon earth; a sorcery, 
not of the starry magian, but of the gloomy wizard, — a 
man of romance whose heart beat strongly, griping art 
with a hand of iron, and forcing it to idealize the 
scenes of his actual life. Before this powerful will, 
Glyndon drew hack more awed and admiring than before 
the calmer beauty which rose from the soul of Baphael, 
like Venus from the deep. And now, as awaking from 
his reverie, he stood opposite to that wild and magnifi- 
cent gloom of Nature which frowned on him from the 
canvas, the very leaves on those gnome-like, distorted 
trees seemed to rustle sibylline secrets in his ear. 
Those rugged and sombre Apennines, the cataract that 
dashed between, suited, more than the actual scenes 
would have done, the mood and temper of his mind. 
The stern, uncouth forms at rest on the crags below, and 
dwarfed by the giant size of the Matter that reigned 
around them, impressed him with the might of Nature 
and the littleness of Man. As in genius of the more 
spiritual cast, the living man, and the soul that lives 
in him , are studiously made the prominent image ; and 
the mere accessories of scene kept down, and cast back, 
as if to show that the exile from paradise is yet the mon- 
arch of the outward world, — so, in the landscapes of 
Salvator, the tree, the mountain, the waterfall, become 
the principal, and man himself dwindles to the acces- 
sory. The Matter seems to reign supreme, and its true 
lord to creep beneath its stupendous shadow. Inert 
matter giving interest to the immortal man, not the 
immortal man to the inert matter. A terrible philoso- 
phy in art! 

While something of these thoughts passed through 
the mind of the painter, he felt his arm touched, and 
saw Nicot by his side. 


ZANONI. 149 

“ A great master,” said Nicot; " but I do not love the 
school. ” 

“ I do not love, hut I am awed by it. We love the 
beautiful and serene, but we have a feeling as deep as 
love for the terrible and dark.” 

“ True,” said Nicot, thoughtfully. “ And yet that 
feeling is only a superstition. The nursery, with its. 
tales of ghosts and goblins, is the cradle of many of our 
impressions in the world. But art should not seek to 
pander to our ignorance ; art should represent only truths. 
I confess that Baphael pleases me less, because I have 
no sympathy with his subjects. His saints and virgins 
are to me only men and women. ” 

“ And from what source should painting, then, take 
its themes ? ” 

“ From history, without doubt,” returned Nicot, 
pragmatically, — those great Boman actions which 
inspire men with sentiments of liberty and valor, with 
the virtues of a republic. I wish the cartoons of 
Baphael had illustrated the story of the Horatii; but it 
remains for France and her Eepublic to give to posterity 
the new and the true school, which could never have 
arisen in a country of priestcraft and delusion.” 

“ And the saints and virgins of Eaphael are to you 
only men and women 1 ” repeated Glyndon, going back 
to Nicot’s candid confession in amaze, and scarcely hear- 
ing the deductions the Frenchman drew from his 
proposition. 

“ Assuredly. Ha, ha! ” and Nicot laughed hideously, 
" do you ask me to believe in the calendar, or what? ” 

“ But the ideal ? ” ^ 

“The ideal!” interrupted Nicot. “Stuff! The 
Italian critics, and your English Keynolds, have turned 
your head. They are so fond of their ‘ gusto grande,’ 


150 


ZANONL 


and their ^ ideal beauty that speaks to the soul ! * — soul ! 
— is there a soul ? I understand a man when he talks 
of composing for a refined taste, — for an educated and 
intelligent reason; for a sense that comprehends truths. 
But as for the soul, — ■ bah! — we are but modifications of 
matter, and painting is modification of matter also.” 

Glyndon turned his eyes from the picture before him 
to ISTicot, and from Nicot to the picture. The dogmatist 
gave a voice to the thoughts which the sight of the 
picture had awakened. He shook his head without 
reply. 

“ Tell me,” said Hicot, abruptly, “ that impostor, — • 
Zanoni ? — oh ! I have now learned his name and quack- 
eries, forsooth, — what did he say to thee of me 1 ” 

^ Of thee? Nothing; but to warn me against thy 
doctrines. ” 

Aha! was that all ? ” said Nicot. “ He is a notable 
inventor, and since, when we met last, I unmasked his 
delusions, I thought he might retaliate by some tale of 
slander. ” 

“ Unmasked his delusions! — how ? ” 

“ A dull and long story : he wished to teach an old 
doting friend of mine his secrets of prolonged life and 
philosophical alchemy. I advise thee to renounce so 
discreditable an acquaintance.” 

With that Nicot nodded significantly, and, not wish- 
ing to be further questioned, went his way. 

Glyndon’s mind at that moment had escaped to his 
art, and the comments and presence of Nicot had been 
no welcome interruption. He turned from the landscape 
of Salvator, and his eye falling on a Nativity by Coreg- 
gio, the contrast between the two ranks of genius struck 
him as a discovery. That exquisite repose, that perfect 
sense of beauty, that strength without effort, that 


ZANONI. 


151 


breathing moral of high art, which speaks to the mind 
through the eye, and raises the thoughts, by the aid of 
tenderness and love, to the regions of awe and wonder, 
— ay ! that was the true school. He quitted the gallery 
with reluctant steps and inspired ideas; he sought his 
own home. Here, pleased not to find the sober Mervale, 
he leaned his face on his hands, and endeavored to recall 
the words of Zanoni in their last meeting. Yes, he 
felt Hicot’s talk even on art was crime; it debased the 
imagination itself to mechanism. Could he, who saw 
nothing in the soul but a combination of matter, prate 
of schools that should excel a Kaphael ? Yes, art was 
magic ; and as he owned the truth of the aphorism , he 
could comprehend that in magic there may be religion, 
for religion is an essential to art. His old ambition, 
freeing itself from the frigid prudence with which Mer- 
vale sought to desecrate all images less substantial than 
the golden calf of the world, revived, and stirred, and 
kindled. The subtle detection of what he conceived to 
be an error in the school he had hitherto adopted, made 
more manifest to him by the grinning commentary of 
Nicot, seemed to open to him a new world of - invention. 
He seized the happy moment, — he placed before him 
the colors and the canvas. Lost in his conceptions of a* 
fresh ideal, his mind was lifted aloft into the airy realms 
of beauty; dark thoughts, unhallowed desires, vanished. 
Zanoni was right: the material world shrunk from his 
gaze,; he viewed Nature as from a mountain-top afar; 
and as the waves of his unquiet heart became calm and 
still, again the angel eyes of Viola beamed on them as a 
holy star. 

Locking himself in his chamber, he refused even the 
visits of Mervale. Intoxicated with the pure air of his 
fresh existence, he remained for three days, and almost 


152 


ZANONI. 


nights, absorbed in his employment; but on the fourth 
morning came that reaction to which all labor is exposed. 
He woke listless and fatigued; and as he cast his eyes 
on the canvas, the glory seemed to have gone from it. 
Humiliating recollections of the great masters he 
aspired to rival forced themselves upon him; defects 
before unseen magnified -themselves to deformities in his 
languid and discontented eyes. He touched and 
retouched, but his hand failed him; he threw down his 
instruments in despair ; he opened his casement : the day 
without was bright and lovely ; the street was crowded 
with that life which is ever so joyous and affluent in the 
animated population of Naples. He saw the lover, as 
he passed, conversing with his mistress by those mute 
gestures which have survived all changes of languages, 
the same now as when the Etruscan painted yon vases in 
the Museo Borbonico. Light from without beckoned 
his youth to its mirth and its pleasures; and the dull 
walls within, lately large enough to comprise heaven 
and earth, seemed now cabined and confined as a 
felon’s prison. He welcomed the step of Mervale at 
his threshold, and unbarred the door. 

“And is that all you have done?” said Mervale, 
■glancing disdainfully at the canvas. “ Is it for this 
that you have shut yourself out from the sunny days 
and moonlit nights of Naples ? ” 

“While the fit was on me, I basked in a brighter 
sun, and imbibed the voluptuous luxury of a softer 
moon. ” 

“ You own that the fit is over. Well, that is some 
sign of returning sense. After all, it is better to daub 
canvas for three days than make a fool of yourself for 
life. This little siren ? ” 

“ Be dumb! I hate to hear you name her.” 


ZANONI. 


153 


Mervale drew his chair nearer to Glyndon’s, thrust his 
hands deep in his hreeches-pockets, stretched his legs, 
and was about to begin a serious strain of expostulation, 
when a knock was heard at the door, and Nicot, without 
waiting for leave, obtruded his ugly head. 

“ Good-day, mon cher confrere. I wished to speak to 
you. Hein ! you have been at work, I see. This is 
well, — very well ! A bold outline, — great freedom in 
that right hand. But, hold! is the composition good? 
You have not got the great pyramidal form. Don’t you 
think, too, that you have lost the advantage of contrast 
in this figure ; since the right leg is put forward, surely 
the right arm should he put back ? Peste ! hut that little 
finger is very fine ! ” 

Mervale detested Nicot. Por all speculators, Uto- 
pians, alterers of the world, and wanderers from the 
high road, were equally hateful to him; hut he could 
have hugged the Frenchman at that moment. He saw 
in Glyndon’s expressive countenance all the weariness 
and disgust he endured. After so wrapped a study, to be 
prated to about pyramidal forms and right arms and 
right legs, the accidence of the art, the whole conception 
to be overlooked, and the criticism to end in approval of 
the little finger! 

“ Oh, ” said Glyndon, peevishly, throwing the cloth 
over his design, “ enough of my poor performance. 
What is it you have to say to me ? ” 

“ In the first place, ” said Nicot, huddling himself 
together upon a stool, — “ in the first place, this Signor 
Zanoni, — this second Cagliostro, — who disputes my 
doctrines! (no doubt a spy of the man Capet) I am not 
vindictive; as Helvetius says, ‘ our errors arise from our 
passions.^ I keep mine in order; hut it is virtuous to 
hate in the cause of mankind ; I would I had the denounc- 


154 


ZANONI. 


ing and the judging of Signor Zanoni at Paris. ” And 
Nicot’s small eyes shot fire, and he gnashed his teeth. 

“ Have you any new cause to hate him ? ” 

“Yes,” said Nicot, fiercely. “Yes, I hear he is 
courting the girl I mean to marry. ” 

“ You! Whom do you speak of? ” 

“ The celebrated Pisani ! She is divinely handsome. 
She would make my fortune in a republic. And a 
republic we shall have before the year is out. ” 

Mervale rubbed his hands, and chuckled. Glyndon 
colored with rage and shame. 

“ Do you know the Signora Pisani ? Have you ever 
spoken to her ? ” 

“ Not yet. But when I make up my mind to any- 
thing, it is soon done. I am about to return to Paris. 
They write me word that a handsome wife advances the 
career of a patriot. The age of prejudice is over. The 
sublimer virtues begin to be understood. I shall take 
back the handsomest wife in Europe.” 

“Be quiet ! What are you about ? ” said Mervale, 
seizing Glyndon as he saw him advance towards the 
Erenchman, his eyes sparkling, and his hands clenched. 

“Sir!” said Glyndon, between his teeth, “ you know 
not of whom you thus speak. Do you affeqt to suppose 
that Viola Pisani would accept you ? ” 

“Not if she could get a better offer,” said Mervale, 
looking up to the ceiling. 

“A better offer? You don’t understand me,” said 
Nicot. “I, Jean Nicot, propose to marry the girl; 
marry her ! Others may make her more liberal offers, 
but no one, I apprehend, would make one so honorable. 
I alone have pity on her friendless situation. Besides, 
according to the dawning state of things, one will always, 
in Prance, be able to get rid of a wife whenever one 


ZANONI. 


155 


wishes. We shall have new laws of divorce. Do you 
imagine that an Italian girl — and in no country in the 
world are maidens, it seems, more chaste (though wives 
may console themselves with virtues more philosophical) 
— would refuse the hand of an artist for the settlements 
of a prince ? No ; I think better of the Pisani than you 
do. I shall hasten to introduce myself to her. ” 

“I wish you all success. Monsieur Nicot,” said Mer- 
vale, rising, and shaking him heartily by the hand. 

Glyndon cast at them both a disdainful glance. 

“Perhaps, Monsieur Nicot, ” said he, at length, con- 
straining his lips into a bitter smile, — “ perhaps you may 
have rivals.” 

“ So much the better,” replied Monsieur Nicot, care- 
lessly, kicking his heels together, and appearing absorbed 
in admiration at the size of his large feet. 

“ I myself admire Viola Pisani. ” 

“ Every painter must ! ” 

“ I may offer her marriage as well as yourself. ” 

“ That would be folly in you, though wisdom in me. 
You would not know how to draw profit from the specu- 
lation ! Cher confrere^ you have prejudices.” 

“ You do not dare to say you would make profit from 
your own wjfe % ” 

“ The virtuous Cato lent his wife to a friend. I love 
virtue, and I cannot do better than imitate Cato. But 
to be serious, — I do not fear you as a rival. You are 
good-looking, and I am ugly. But you are irresolute, 
and I decisive. While you are uttering fine phrases, I 
shall say, simply, ‘ I have a hon etat. Will you marry 
me ? * So do your w'orst, cher confrere. , Au revoir^ 
behind the scenes! ” 

So saying, Nicot rose, stretched his long arms and 
short legs, yawned till he showed all his ragged teeth 


156 


ZANONI. 


from ear to ear, pressed down his cap on his shaggy 
head with an air of defiance, and casting over his left 
shoulder a glance of triumph and malice at the indignant 
Glyndon, sauntered out of the room. 

Mervale hurst into a violent fit of laughter. “ See 
how your Viola is estimated by your friend. A fine 
victory, to carry her off from the ugliest dog between 
Lapland and the Calmucks.” 

Glyndon was yet too indignant to answer, when a new 
visitor arrived. It was Zanoni himself. Mervale, on 
whom the appearance and aspect of this personage 
imposed a kind of reluctant deference, which he was 
unwilling to acknowledge, and still more to betray, 
nodded to Glyndon, and saying, simply, More when I 
see you again, ” left the painter and his unexpected visitor. 

“ I seej ” said Zanoni, lifting the cloth from the cam 
vas, “ that you have not slighted the advice I gave you. 
Courage, young artist ; this is an escape from the schools : 
this is full of the bold self-confidence of real genius. You 
had no Nicot — no Mervale — at your elbow when tfiis 
image of true beauty was conceived! ” 

Charmed back to his art by this unlooked-for praise, 
Glyndon replied modestly, “ I thought well of my 
design till this morning; and then I was disenchanted 
of my happy persuasion.” 

“ Say, rather, that, unaccustomed to continuous labor, 
you were fatigued with your employment. ” 

“ That is true. Shall I confess it? I began to miss 
the world without. It seemed to me as if, while I lav- 
ished my heart and my youth upon visions of beauty, I 
was losing the beautiful realities of actual life. And I 
envied the merry fisherman, singing as he passed below 
my casement, and the lover conversing with his 
mistress.” 


ZANONI. 


157 


“ And,” said Zanoni, with an encouraging smile, “ do 
you blame yourself for the natural and necessary return 
to earth, in which even the most habitual visitor of the 
Heavens of Invention seeks his relaxation and repose ? 
Man’s genius is a bird that cannot be always on the 
wing; when the craving for the actual world is felt, it 
is a hunger that must be appeased. They who command 
best the ideal, enjoy ever most the real. See the true 
artist, when abroad in men’s thoroughfares, ever obser-’ 
vant, ever diving into the heart, ever alive to the least 
as to the greatest of the complicated truths of existence ; 
descending to what pedants would call the trivial and 
the frivolous. From every mesh in the social web, he 
can disentangle a grace. And for him each airy gossa- 
mer floats in the gold of the sunlight. Know you not 
that around the animalcule that sports in the water 
there shines a halo, as around the star ^ that revolves in 
bright pastime through the space 1 True art finds beauty 
everywhere. In the street, in the market-place, in the 
hovel, it gathers food for the hive of its thoughts. In 
the mire of politics, Dante and Milton selected pearls 
for the wreath of song. Who ever told you that Kaphael 
did not enjoy the life without, carrying everywhere 
with him the one inward idea of beauty which attracted 
and imbedded in its own amber every straw that the 
feet of the dull man trampled into mud 1 As some lord 
>of the forest wanders abroad for its prey, and scents and 
follows it over plain and hill, through brake and jungle, 
but, seizing it at last, bears the quarry to its unwit- 
nessed cave, — so Genius searches through wood and 
waste, untiringly and eagerly, every sense awake, every 

1 The monas mica, found in the purest pools, is encompassed 
with a halo. And this is frequent amongst anany other species of 
animalculae. 


158 


Z AN ONI. 


nerve strained to speed and strength, for the scattered and 
flying images of matter, that it seizes at last with its 
mighty talons, and hears away with it into solitudes no 
footstep can invade. Go, seek the world without; it is 
for art the inexhaustible pasture-ground and harvest 
to the world within! ” 

“You comfort me,” said Glyndon, brightening. “ I 
had imagined my weariness a proof of my deficiency! 
But not now would I speak to you of these labors. 
Pardon me, if I pass from the toil to the reward. You 
have uttered dim prophecies of my future, if I wed one 
who, in the judgment -of the sober world, would only 
darken its prospects and obstruct its ambition. Do you 
speak from the wisdom which is experience, or that 
which aspires to prediction ? ” 

“ Are they not allied ? Is it not he best accustomed 
to calculation who can solve at a glance any new prob- 
lem in the arithmetic of chances ? ” 

“ You evade my question.” 

“ No; but I will adapt my answer the better to your, 
comprehension, for it is upon this very point that I havo 
sought you. Listen to me! ” Zanoni fixed his eyes- 
earnestly on his listener, and continued: “ For the 
accomplishment of whatever is great and lofty, the clear 
perception of truths is the first requisite, — truths 
adapted to the object desired. The warrior thus reduces 
the chances of battle to combinations almost of mathc' 
matics. He can predict a result, if he can but depend 
upon the materials he is forced to employ. At such a 
loss he can cross that bridge; in such a time he can 
reduce that fort. Still more accurately, for he depends 
less on material causes than ideas at his command, can 
the commander of . the purer science or diviner art, if 
he once perceive the truths that are in him and around. 


ZANONI. 


159 


foretell what he can achieve, and in what he is con- 
demned to fail. But this perception of truths is dis- 
turbed by many causes, — vanity, passion, fear, indo- 
lence in himself, ignorance of the fitting means without 
to accomplish what he designs. He may miscalculate 
his own forces; he may have no chart of the country he 
would invade. It is only in a peculiar state of the 
mind that it is capable of perceiving truth; and that 
state is profound serenity. Your mind is fevered by a 
desire for truth: you would compel it to your embraces; 
you would ask me to impart to you, without ordeal or 
preparation, the grandest secrets that exist in Nature. 
But truth can no more be seen by the mind unprepared 
for it, than the sun can dawn upon the midst of night. 
Such a mind receives truth only to pollute it: to use the 
simile of one who has wandered near to the secret of the 
sublime Goetia (or the magic that lies within Nature, as 
electricity within the cloud), ‘He who pours water into 
the muddy well, does but disturb the mud.’ ” ^ 

“ What do you tend to 1 ” 

“This: that you have faculties that may attain to 
surpassing power, that may rank you among those 
enchanters who, greater than the magian, leave behind 
them an enduring influence, worshipped wherever 
beauty is comprehended, wherever the soul is sensible of 
a higher world than that in which matter struggles for 
crude and incomplete existence. 

“But to make available those faculties, need I be a 
prophet to tell you that you must learn to concentre upon 
great objects all your desires? The heart must rest, 
that the mind may be active. At present you wander 
from aim to aim. As the ballast to the ship, so to the 
spirit are faith and love. With your whole heart, aifec- 
1 Iamb, de Vit. Pythag. 


160 


ZANONI. 


tions, humanity, centred in one object, your mind and 
aspirations will become equally steadfast and in earnest. 
Viola is a child as yet; you do not perceive the high 
nature the trials of life will develop. Pardon me, if I 
say that her soul, purer and loftier than your own, will 
bear it upward, as a secret hymn carries aloft the spirits 
of the world. Your nature wants the harmony, the 
music which, as the Pythagoreans wisely taught, at once 
elevates and soothes. I offer you that music in her 
love.” 

“ But am I sure that she does love me ? ” 

“ Artist, no ; she loves you not at present ; her affec- 
tions are full of another. But if I could transfer to 
you, as the loadstone transfers its attraction to the 
magnet, the love that she has now for me, — if 1 could 
cause her to see in you the ideal of her dreams — ” 

“ Is such a gift in the power of man ? ” 

“ I offer it to you, if your love he lawful, if your faith 
in virtue and yourself be deep and loyal ; if not, think 
you that I would disenchant her with truth to make her 
adore a falsehood ? ” 

“But if,” persisted Glyndon, — “if she be all that 
you tell me, and if she love you, how can you rob your- 
self of so priceless a treasure ? ” 

“ Oh, shallow and mean heart of man! ” exclaimed 
Zanoni, with unaccustomed passion and vehemence, 
“ dost thou conceive so little of love as not to know that 
it sacrifices all — love itself — for the happiness of the 
thing it loves? Hear me! ” And Zanoni ’s face grew 
pale. “Hear me! I press this upon you, because I 
love her, and because I fear that with me her fate will 
be less fair than with yourself. Why, — ask not, for 
I will not tell you. Enough! Time presses now for 
your answer; it cannot long he delayed. Before the 


ZANONI. 


161 


night of the third day from this, all choice will be 
forbid you! ” 

But,” said Glyndon, still doubting and suspicious, 
— “ but why this haste 1 ” 

“ Man, you are not worthy of her when you ask me. 
All I can tell you here, you should have known your- 
self. This ravisher, this man of will, this son of the 
old Visconti, unlike you, — steadfast, resolute, earnest 
even in his crimes, — .never relinquishes an object. 
But one passion controls his lust, — it is his avarice. 
The day after his attempt on Viola, his uncle, the 

Cardinal , from whom he has large expectations of 

land and gold, sent for him, and forbade him, on pain 
of forfeiting all the possessions which his schemes 
already had parcelled out, to pursue with dishonorable 
designs one whom the Cardinal had heeded and loved 
from childhood. This is the cause of his present pause 
from his pursuit. While we speak, the cause expires. 
Before the hand of the clock reaches the hour of noon, 

the Cardinal will be no more. At this very 

moment thy friend, Jean Nicot, is with the Prince 
di .” 

“ He ! wherefore 1 ” 

“ To ask what dower shall go with Viola Pisani, the 
morning that she leaves the palace of the prince.” 

“ And how do you know all this ? ” 

“Fool! I tell thee again, because a lover is a 
watcher by night and day; because love never sleeps 
when danger menaces the beloved one ! ” 

“ And you it was that informed the Cardinal ? ” 

“Yes; and what has been my task might as easily 
have been thine. Speak, — thine answer! ” 

“ You shall have it on the third day from this. ” 

“ Be it so. Put off, poor waverer, thy happiness to 


162 


ZANONI. 


the last hour. On the third day from this, I will ask 
thee thy resolve.” 

“ And where shall we meet ? ” 

" Before midnight, where you may least expect me. 
You cannot shun me, though you may seek to do so! ” 

“ Stay one moment! You condemn me as doubtful, 
irresolute, suspicious. Have I no cause ? Can I yield 
without a struggle to the strange fascination you exert 
upon my mind? What interest can you have in me, a 
stranger, that you should thus dictate to me the gravest 
action in the life of man? Do you suppose that any 
one in his senses would not pause, and deliberate, and 
ask himself, ‘ Why should this stranger care thus for 
me?’ ” 

“ And yet,” said. Zanoni, “ if I told thee that I could 
initiate thee into the secrets of that magic which the 
philosophy of the whole existing world treats as a 
chimera, or imposture; if I promised to show thee 
how to command the beings of air and ocean, how to 
accumulate wealth more easily than a child can ga.ther 
pebbles on the shore, to place in thy hands the essence 
of the herbs which prolong life from age to age, the 
mystery of that attraction by which to awe all danger 
and disarm all violence and subdue man as the serpent 
charms the bird, — if I told thee that all these it was 
mine to possess and to communicate, thou wouldst listen 
to me then, and obey me without a doubt! ” 

“ It is true ; and I can account for this only by the 
imperfect associations of my childhood, — by traditions 
in our house of — ” 

“Your forefather, who, in the revival of science, 
sought the secrets of Apollonius and Paracelsus. ” 

“What!” said Glyndon, amazed, “ are you so well 
acquainted with the annals of an obscure lineage ? ” 


ZANONI. 


163 


\ 

“To the man who aspires to know, no man who has 
been the meanest student of knowledge should be 
unknown. You ask me why I have shown this interest 
in your fate ? There is one reason which I have not yet 
told you. There is a fraternity as to whose laws and 
whose mysteries the most inquisitive schoolmen are in 
the dark. By those laws all are pledged to warn, to aid, 
and to guide even the remotest descendants of men who 
have toiled, though vainly, like your ancestor, in the 
mysteries of the Order. We are hound to advise them 
to their welfare; nay, more, — if they command us to it, 
we must accept them as our pupils. I am a survivor of 
that most ancient and immemorial union. This it was 
that bound me to thee at the first; this, perhaps, 
attracted thyself unconsciously. Son of our Brotherhood, 
to me.” 

“ If this be so, I command thee, in the name of the 
laws thou obeyest, to receive me as thy pupil ! ” 

“What do you ask?” said Zanoni, passionately. 
“ Learn, first, the conditions. Ho neophyte must have, 
at his initiation, one affection or desire that chains him 
to the world. He' must be pure from the love of woman, 
free from avarice and ambition, free from the dreams 
even of art, or the hope of earthly fame. The first 
sacrifice thou must make is — Viola herself. And for 
what? For an ordeal that the most daring courage only 
can encounter, the most ethereal natures alone survive! 
Thou art unfit for the science that has made me and 
others what we are or have been; for thy whole nature 
is one fear! ” 

“Fear!” cried Glyndon, coloring with resentment, 
and rising to the full height of his stature. 

“ Fear ! and the worst fear, — fear of the world^s 
opinion; fear of the Hicots and the Mervales ; fear of 


164 


ZANONI. 


thine own impulses when most generous ; fear of thine 
own powers when thy genius is most bold; fear that 
virtue is not eternal; fear that God does not live in 
heaven to keep watch on earth; fear, the fear of little 
men ; and that fear is never known to the great. ” 

With these words Zanoni abruptly left the artist, 
humbled, bewildered, and not convinced. He remained 
alone with his thoughts till he was aroused by the strik- 
ing of the clock; he then suddenly remembered Zanoni ’s 
prediction of the Cardinal’s death; and, seized with an 
intense desire to learn its truth, he hurried into the 
streets, — he gained the Cardinal’s palace. Five min- 
utes before noon his Eminence had expired, after an ill- 
ness of less than an hour. Zanoni ’s visit had occupied 
more time than the illness of the Cardinal. Awed and 
perplexed, he turned from the palace, and as he walked 
through the Chiaja, he saw Jean Nicot emerge from the 
portals of the Prince di . 


ZANONI. 


165 


CHAPTEE V. 

Two loves I have of comfort and despair, 

Which like two spirits do suggest me stiU. 

Shakespeare. 

Venerable Brotherhood, so sacred and so little known, 
from whose secret and precious archives the materials for 
this history have been drawn; ye who have retained, 
from century to century, all that time has spared of the 
august and venerable science, — thanks to you, if now, 
for the first time, some record of the thoughts and 
actions of no false and self-styled luminary of your 
Order be given, however imperfectly, to the world. 
Many have called themselves of your hand ; many spu- 
rious pretenders have been so called by the learned 
ignorance which still, baffled and perplexed, is driven 
to confess that it knows nothing of your origin, youi 
ceremonies or doctrines, nor even if you still have local 
habitation on the earth. Thanks to you if I, the only 
one of my country, in this age, admitted, with a pro- 
fane footstep, into your mysterious Academe,^ have 
been by you empowered and instructed to adapt to the 
comprehension of the uninitiated, some few of the 
starry truths which shone on the great Shemaia of the 
Chaldean Lore, and gleamed dimly through the darkened 
knowledge of later disciples, laboring, like Psellus and 
lamblichus, to revive the embers of the fire which 
burned in the Hamarin of the East. Though not to us 

1 The reader will have the goodness to remember that this is 
said by the author of the original MS., not by the editor. 


166 


ZANONI. 


of an aged and hoary world is vouchsafed the name 
which, so say the earliest oracles of the earth. rushes 
into the infinite worlds,” yet is it ours to trace the 
reviving truths, through each new discovery of the 
philosopher and chemist. The laws of attraction, of 
electricity, and of the yet more mysterious agency of that 
great principal of life, which, if drawn from the uni- 
verse, would leave the universe a grave, were but the 
code in which the Theurgy of old sought the guides that 
led it to a legislation and science of its own. To 
rebuild on words the fragments of this history, it seems 
to me as if, in a solemn trance, I was led through the 
ruins of a city whose only remains were tombs. From 
the sarcophagus and the urn I awake the genius ^ of the 
extinguished Torch, and so closely does its shape 
resemble Eros, that at moments I scarcely know which 
of ye dictates to me, — O Love! O Death! 

And it stirred in the virgin’s heart, — this new, 
unfathomable, and divine emotion ! Was it only the 
ordinary affection of the pulse and the fancy, of the eye 
to the Beautiful, of the ear to the Eloquent, or did it 
not justify the notion she herself conceived of it, — that 
it was born not of the senses, that it was less of earthly 
and human love than the effect of some wondrous but 
not unholy charm? I said that, from that day in which, 
no longer with awe and trembling, she surrendered 
herself to the influence of Zanoni, she had sought to put | 
her thoughts into words. Let the thoughts attest their 
own nature. 

THE SELF CONFESSIONAL. 

“ Is it the daylight that shines on me, or the memory 
of thy presence? Wherever I look, the world seems full 
1 The Greek Genius of Death. 


ZANONI. 


167 


of thee; in every ray that trembles on the water, that 
smiles upon the leaves, I behold but a likeness to thine 
eyes. What is this change, that alters not only myself, 
hut the face of the whole universe ? 

How instantaneously leaped into life the power with 
which thou swayest my heart in its ebb and flow. 
Thousands were around me, and I saw but thee. That 
was the night in which I first entered upon the world 
which crowds life into a drama, and has no language but 
music. How strangely and how suddenly with thee 
became that world evermore connected! What the 
delusion of the stage was to others, thy presence was to 
me. My life, too, seemed to centre into those short 
hours, and from thy lips I heard a music, mute to all 
ears but mine. I sit in the room where my father dwelt. 
Here, on that happy night, forgetting why they were 'so 
happy, I shrunk into the shadow, and sought to guess 
what thou wert to me; and my mother’s low voice woke 
me, and 1 crept to my father’s side, close — close, from 
fear of my own thoughts. 

“ Ah ! sweet and sad was the morrow to that night, 
when thy lips warned me of the future. An orphan now, 
— what is there that lives for me to think of, to dream 
upon, to revere, but thou! 

“ How tenderly thou hast rebuked me for the grievous 
wrong that my thoughts did thee ! Why should I have 
shuddered to feel thee glancing upon my thoughts like 
the beam on the solitary tree, to which thou didst once 
liken me so well % It was — it was, that, like the tree, 
I struggled for the light, and the light came. They tell 
me of love, and my very life of the stage breathes the 
language of love into my lips. No; again and again, I 
know that is not the love that I feel for thee! — it is 


168 


ZANONI. 


not a passion, it is a thought! I ask not to be loved 
again. I murmur not that thy words are stern and thy 
looks are cold. I ask not if I have rivals ; I sigh not 
to be fair in thine eyes. It is my spirit that would 
blend itself with thine. I would give worlds, though 
we were apart, though oceans rolled between us, to 
know the hour in which thy gaze was lifted to the 
stars, — in which thy heart poured itself in prayer. 
They tell me thou art more beautiful than the marble 
images that are fairer than all human forms; but I 
have never dared to gaze steadfastly on thy face, that 
memory might compare thee with the rest. Only thine 
eyes and thy soft, calm smile haunt me; as when I 
look upon the moon, all that passes into my heart is 
her silent light. 

“ Often, when the air is calm, I have thought that I 
hear the strains of my father’s music; often, though 
long stilled in the grave, have they waked me from the 
dreams of the solemn night. Methinks, ere thou comest 
to me that I hear them herald thy approach. Methinks 
I hear them wail and moan, when I sink back into 
myself on seeing thee depart. Thou art of that music, 
— its spirit, its genius. My father must have guessed 
at thee and thy native regions, when the winds hushed 
to listen to his tones, and the world deemed him mad! 
I hear, where I sit, the far murmur of the sea. Murmur 
on , ye blessed waters ! The waves are the pulses of the 
shore. They beat with the gladness of the morning 
wind, — so beats my heart in the freshness and light that 
make up the thoughts of thee I 

“ Often in my childhood I have mused and asked for 
what I was horn; and my soul answered my heart and 


ZANONI. 


169 


Baid, * Thou wert horn to worship ! ’ Yes; I know why 
the real world has ever seemed to me so false and cold. 
1 know why the world of the stage charmed and dazzled 
me. I know why it was so sweet to sit apart and gaze 
my whole being into the distant heavens. My nature 
is not formed for this life, happy though that life seem 
to others. It is its very want to have ever before it 
some image loftier than itself! Stranger, in what realm 
above, when the grave is past, shall my soul, hour after 
hour, worship at the .same source as thine? 

“ In the gardens of my neighbor there is a small foun- 
tain. I stood by it this morning after sunrise. How 
it sprung up, with its eager spray, to the sunbeams! 
And then I thought that I should see thee again this 
day, and so sprung my heart to the new morning which 
thou bringest me from the skies. 

“ I have seen , I have listened to thee again. How bold 
I have become! I ran on with my childlike thoughts 
and stories, my recollections of the past, as if I had 
known thee from an infant. Suddenly the idea of my 
presumption struck me. I stopped, and timidly sought 
thine eyes. 

“‘Well, and when you found that the nightingale 
refused to sing ? ^ — 

“ ‘Ah! ’ I said, ‘ what to thee this history of the heart 
of a child % ^ 

“ ‘ Viola,’ didst thou answer, with that voice, so 
inexpressibly calm and earnest! — * Viola, the darkness 
of a child’s heart is often but the shadow of a star. 
Speak on! And thy nightingale, when they caught 
and caged it, refused to sing ? ’ 

“ ‘ And I placed the cage yonder, amidst the vine- 


170 


ZANONI. 


leaves, and took up my lute, and spoke to it on the 
strings; for I thought that all music was its native 
language, and it would understand that I sought to 
comfort it.’ 

“ ‘ Yes,’ saidst thou. ‘ And at last it answered thee, 
hut not with song, — in a sharp, brief cry; so mournful, 
that thy hands let fall the lute, and the tears gushed from 
thine eyes. So softly didst thou unbar the cage, and the 
nightingale flew into yonder thicket; and thou heardst 
the foliage rustle, and, looking through the moonlight, 
thine eyes saw that it had found its mate. It sang to 
thee then from the boughs a long, loud, joyous jubilee. 
And musing, thou didst feel that it was not the vine- 
leaves or the moonlight that made the bird give melody 
to night, and that the secret of its music was the pres- 
ence of a thing beloved.’ 

“ How didst thou know my thoughts in that childlike 
time better than I knew myself ! How is the humble life 
of my past years, with its mean events, so mysteriously 
familiar to thee, bright stranger! I wonder, — but I 
do not again dare to fear thee I 


“ Once the thought of him oppressed and weighed 
me down. As an infant that longs for the moon, my 
being was one vague desire for something never to be 
attained. Now I feel rather as if to think of thee 
sufficed to remove every fetter from my spirit. I float 
in the still seas of light, and nothing seems too high for 
my wings, too glorious for my eyes. It was mine igno- 
rance that, made me fear thee. A linowledge that is not 
in books seems to breathe around thee as an atmosphere. 
How little have I read! — how little have I learned! 
Yet when thou art by my side, it seems as if the veil 
were lifted from all wisdom and all Nature. I start!/* 


ZANONI. 


171 


when I look even at the words I have written ; they seem 
not to come from myself, but are the signs of another 
language which thou hast taught my heart, and which 
my hand traces rapidly, as at thy dictation. Some- 
times, while I write or muse, I could fancy that I 
heard light wings hovering around me, and saw dim 
shapes of beauty floating round, and vanishing as they 
smiled upon me. No unquiet and fearful dream ever 
comes to me now in sleep, yet sleep and waking are alike 
hut as one dream. In sleep I wander with thee, not 
through the paths of earth, but through impalpable air 
— an air which seems a music — upward and upward, as 
the soul mounts on the tones of a lyre ! Till I knew 
thee, I was as a slave to the earth. Thou hast given to 
me the liberty of the universe! Before, it was life; it 
seems to me now as if I had commenced eternity ! 

“ Formerly, when I was to appear upon the stage, my 
heart beat more loudly. I trembled to encounter the 
audience, whose breath gave shame or renown; and now 
I have no fear of them. I see them , heed them, hear 
them not! I know that there will he music in my 
voice, for it is a hymn that I pour to thee. Thou 
never comest to the theatre; and that no longer grieves 
me. Thou art become too sacred to appear a part of 
the common world, and I feel glad that thou art not 
by when crowds have a right to judge me. 

“ And he spoke to me of another : to another he 
would consign me! No, it is not love that I feel for 
thee, Zanoni ; or why did I hear thee without anger, 
why did thy command seem to me not a thing impossi- 
ble ? As the strings of the instrument obey the hand 
of the master, thy look modulates the wildest chords of 


172 


ZANONI. 


my heart to thy will. If it please thee, — yes, let it be 
so. Thou art lord of my destinies; they cannot rebel 
against thee! I almost think I could love him, who- 
ever it he, on whom thou wouldst shed the rays that 
circumfuse thyself. Whatever thou hast touched, I 
love; whatever thou speakest of, I love. Thy hand 
played with these vine-leaves; I wear them in my 
bosom. Thou seemest to me the source of all love ; too 
high and too bright to he loved thyself, hut darting light 
into other objects, on which the eye can gaze less daz- 
zled. No, no; it is not love that I feel for thee, and 
therefore it is that I do not blush to nourish and confess 
it. Shame on me if I loved, knowing myself so worth- 
less a thing to thee ! 

" Another ! — my memory echoes hack that word. 
Another ! Dost thou mean that I shall see thee no more ? 
It is not sadness, — it is not despair that seizes me. I 
cannot weep. It is an utter sense of desolation. I am 
plunged hack into the common life; and I shudder 
coldly at the solitude. But I will obey thee, if thou 
wilt. Shall I not see thee again beyond the grave ? O 
how sweet it were to die I 

“ Why do I not struggle from the web in which my 
will is thus entangled ? Hast thou a right to dispose of 
me thus ? Give me hack — give me hack the life I 
knew before I gave life itself away to thee. Give me 
back the careless dreams of my youth, — my liberty of 
heart that sung aloud as it walked the earth. Thou 
hast disenchanted me of everything that is not of thyself. 
Where was the sin, at least, to think of thee; — to see 
thee? Thy kiss still glows upon my hand; is that hand 
mine to bestow? Thy kiss claimed and hallowed it 
to thyself. Stranger, I will not obey thee. 


ZANONI. 


173 


“Another day, — one day of the fatal three is gone! 
It is strange to me that since the sleep of the last night, 
a deep calm has settled upon my breast. I feel so 
assured that my very being is become a part of thee, 
that I cannot believe that my life can be separated from 
thine; and in this conviction I repose, and smile even 
at thy words and my own fears. Thou art fond of one 
maxim, which thou repeatest in a thousand forms, — 
that the beauty of the soul is faith; that as ideal love- 
liness to the sculptor, faith is to the heart; that faith, 
rightly understood, extends over all the works of the 
Creator, whom we can know but through belief; that it 
embraces a tranquil confidence in ourselves, and a serene 
repose as to our future ; that it is the moonlight that 
sways the tides of the human sea. That faith I com- 
prehend now. I reject all doubt, all fear. I know that 
I have inextricably linked the whole that makes the 
inner life to thee ; and thou canst not tear me from thee, 
if thou wouldst! And this change from struggle into 
calm came to me with sleep, — a sleep without a dream ; 
but when I woke, it was with a mysterious sense of 
happiness, — an indistinct memory of something blessed, 

^ — as if thou hadst cast from afar off a smile upon my 
slumber. At night I was so sad; not a blossom that 
had not closed itself up, as if never more to open to 
the sun; and the night itself, in the heart as on the 
earth, has ripened the blossoms into flowers. The world 
is beautiful once more, but beautiful in repose, — not a 
breeze stirs thy tree, not a doubt my soul! ” 


174 


ZANONI. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Tu vegga o per violenzia o per inganno 
Patire o disonore o mortal danno.i 

Orl. Fur.y Cant. xlii. i. 

It was a small cabinet; the walls were covered with 
pictures, one of which was worth more than the whole 
lineage of the owner of the palace. Oh, yes! Zanoni 
was right. The painter is a magician; the gold he 
at least wrings from his crucible is no delusion. A 
Venetian noble might be a fribble, or an assassin, — a 
scoundrel, or a dolt; worthless, or worse than worth- 
less, yet he might have sat to Titian, and his portrait 
may be inestimable, — a few inches of painted canvas 
a thousand times more valuable than a man with his 
veins and muscles, brain, will, heart, and intellect! 

In this cabinet sat a man of about three-and-forty, — 
dark-eyed, sallow, with short, prominent features, a 
massive conformation of jaw, and thick, sensual, but 

resolute lips; this man was the Prince di . His 

form, above the middle .height, and rather inclined to 
corpulence, was clad in a loose dressing-robe of rich 
brocade. On a table before him lay an old-fashioned 
sword and hat, a mask, dice and dice-box, a portfolio, 
and an inkstand of silver curiously carved. 

“Well, Mascari, ” said the prince, looking up towards 
his parasite, who stood by the embrasure of the deep- 
set barricadoed window, — “ well ! the Cardinal sleeps 

1 Thou art about, either through violence or artifice, to suffer 
either dishonor or mortal loss. 


ZANONI. 


175 


with his fathers. I require comfort for the loss of so 
excellent a relation; and where a more dulcet voice 
than Viola Pisani’s ? ” 

“ Is your Excellency serious ? So soon after the death 
of his Eminence , 

“ It will be the less talked of, and I the less suspected. 
Hast thou ascertained the name of the insolent who 
baffled us that night, and advised the Cardinal the next 
day?” 

“ Not yet.” 

“ Sapient Mascari ! I will ii^form thee. It was the 
strange Unknown.” 

“ The Signor Zanoni ! Are you sure, my prince ? ” 

“ Mascari, yes. There is a tone in that man’s voice 
that I never can mistake; so clear, and so commanding, 
when I hear it I almost fancy there is such a thing as 
conscience. However, we must rid ourselves of an 
impertinent. Mascari, Signor Zanoni hath not yet 
honored our poor house with his presence. He is a 
distinguished stranger, — we must give a banquet in his 
honor. ” 

“ Ah, and the Cyprus wine ! The cypress is a proper 
emblem of the grave.” 

“ But this anon. I am superstitious ; there are 
strange stories of Zanoni’s power and foresight ; remem- 
ber the death of Ughelli. No matter, though the Fiend 
were his ally, he should not rob me of my prize ; no, nor 
my revenge.” 

“Your Excellency is infatuated; the actress has 
bewitched you.” 

“ Mascari, ” said the prince , with a haughty smile, 
“ through these veins rolls the blood of the old Visconti, 
— of those who boasted that no woman ever escaped 
their lust, and no man their resentment. The crown 


176 


ZANONL 


of my fathers has shrunk into a gewgaw and a toy, — 
their ambition and their spirit are undecayed ! My 
honor is now enlisted in this pursuit, — Viola must he 
mine ! ” 

“ Another ambuscade ? ” said^ Mascari, inquiringly. 

“ Nay, why not enter the house itself ? — the situation 
is lonely, and the door is not made of iron. ” 

“ But what if, on her return home, she tell the tale 
of our violence ? A house forced, — a virgin stolen ! 
Keflect; though the feudal privileges are not destroyed, 
even a Visconti is not now above the law. ” 

“ Is he not, Mascari ? Fool ! in what age of the 
world, even if the Madmen of France succeed in their 
chimeras, will the iron of law not bend itself, like an 
osier twig, to the strong hand of power and gold ? But 
look not so pale, Mascari ; I have foreplanned all things. 
The day that she leaves this palace, she will leave it 
for France, with Monsieur Jean Nicot.” 

Before Mascari could reply, the gentleman of the 
chamber announced the Signor Zanoni. 

The prince involuntarily laid his hand upon the 
sword placed on the table, then with a smile at his 
own impulse, rose, and met his visitor at the threshold, 
with all the profuse and respectful courtesy of Italian 
simulation. 

“ This is an honor highly prized, ” said the prince. 
“ I have long desired to clasp the hand of one so dis- 
tinguished. ” 

“ And I give it in the spirit with which you seek it,” 
replied Zanoni. 

The Neapolitan bowed over the hand he pressed; but 
as he touched it a shiver came over him, and his heart 
stood still. Zanoni bent on him his dark, smiling eyes, 
and then seated himself v^ith a familiar air. 


ZANONI. 


177 


" Thus it is signed and sealed ; 1 mean our friendship, 
noble prince.. And now I will tell you the object of 
my visit. I find, Excellency, that, unconsciously per- 
haps, we are rivals. Can we not accommodate our 
pretensions ! ” 

“Ah!” said the prince, carelessly, “you, then, were 
the cavalier who robbed me of the reward of my chase. 
All stratagems fair in love, as in war. Eeconcile our 
pretensions! Well, here is the dice-box; let us throw 
for her. He who casts the lowest shall resign his 
claim. ” 

“Is this a decision by which you will promise to be 
hound?” 

“ Yes, on my faith.” 

“ And for him who breaks his word so plighted, what 
shall he the forfeit ? ” 

“ The sword lies next to the dice-box. Signor Zanoni. 
Let him who stands not by his honor fall by the 
sword. ” 

“ And you invoke that sentence if either of us fail 
his word? Be it so; let Signor Mascari cast for us.” 

“Well said! — Mascari, the dice! ” 

The prince threw himself hack in his chair; and, 
world-hardened as he was, could not suppress the glow 
of triumph and satisfaction that spread itself over his 
features. Mascari took up the three dice, and rattled 
them noisily in the box. Zanoni, leaning his cheek on 
his hand, and bending over the table, fixed his eyes 
steadfastly on the parasite ; Mascari in vain struggled to 
extricate himself from that searching gaze; he grew pale, 
and trembled, he put down the box. 

“ I give the first throw to your Excellency. Signor 
Mascari, be pleased to terminate our suspense.” 

Again Mascari took up the box ; again his hand shook 
12 


178 


ZANONI. 


SO that the dice rattled within. He threw ; the numbers 
were sixteen. 

“ It is a high throw, ” said Zanoni, calmly ; ** neverthe- 
less, Signor Mascari , I do not despond. ” 

Mascari gathered up the dice, shook the box, and 
rolled the contents once more on the table : the number 
was the highest that can be thrown, — eighteen. 

The prince darted a glance of fire at his minion, who 
stood with gaping mouth, staring at the dice, and trem- 
bling from head to foot. 

“I have won, you see,” said Zanoni; ^^may we be 
friends still ? ” 

“Signor,” said the prince, obviously struggling with 
anger and confusion, “ the victory is yours. But pardon 
me, you have spoken lightly of this young girl, — will 
anything tempt you to yield your claim 1 ” 

“ Ah, do not think so ill of my gallantry ; and, ” 
resumed Zanoni, with a stern meaning in his voice, 
“ forget not the forfeit your own lips have named. ” 
The prince knit his brow, but constrained the haughty 
answer that was his first impulse. 

“ Enough ! ” he said, forcing a smile ; “ I yield. Let 
me prove that I do not yield ungraciously; will you 
favor me with your presence at a little feast I propose 
to give in honor, ” he added, with a sardonic mockery, 
“ of the elevation of my kinsman, the late Cardinal, 
of pious memory, to the true seat of St. Peter ? ” 

“ It is, indeed, a happiness to hear one command of 
yours I can obey.” 

Zanoni then turned the conversation, talked lightly 
and gayly, and soon afterwards departed. 

“Villain!” then exclaimed the prince, grasping 
Mascari by the collar, “ you betrayed me ! ” 

“ I assure your Excellency that the dice were properly 


ZANONI. 179 

arranged; he should have thrown twelve; hut he is the 
Devil-, and that ’s the end of it. ” 

There is no time to he lost, ” said the prince, quit- 
ting his hold of his parasite, who quietly resettled his 
cravat. 

“ My hlood is up, — I will win this girl, if I die for it! 
What noise is that 1 ” 

“ It is hut the sword of your illustrious ancestor that 
has fallen from the table.” 


180 


ZANONI. 


CHAPTEE YII. 

II ne faut appeler aucun ordre si ce n’est en terns clair et serein.* 
Les Clavicules DU Rabbi Salomon. 

LETTER FROM ZANONI TO MEJNOUR. 

My art is already dim and troubled. I have lost the tran- 
quillity which is power. I cannot influence the decisions 
of those whom I would most guide to the shore; I see them 
wander farther and deeper into the infinite ocean where our 
barks sail evermore to the horizon that flies before us! 
Amazed and awed to find that I can only warn where I 
would control, I have looked into my own soul. It is true 
that the desires of earth chain me to the present, and shut 
me from the solemn secrets which Intellect, purified from all 
the dross of the clay, alone can examine and survey. The 
stern condition on which we hold our nobler and diviner 
gifts darkens our vision towards the future of those for whom 
we know the human infirmities of jealousy or hate or love. 
Mejnour, all around me is mist and haze; I have gone back 
in our sublime existence; and from the bosom of the imperish- 
able youth that blooms only in the spirit, springs up the dark 
poison-flower of human love. 

This man is not worthy of her, — I know that truth ; yet 
in his nature are the seeds of good and greatness, if the tares 
and weeds of worldly vanities and fears would suffer them 
to grow. If she were his, and I had thus transplanted to 
another soil the passion that obscures my gaze and disarms 
my power, unseen, unheard, unrecognized, I could watch over 
his fate, and secretly prompt his deeds, and minister to her 

* No order of spirits must be invoked unless the weather be clear 
and serene. 


ZANONL 


181 


welfare through 'nis own. But time rushes on! Through the 
shadows that encircle me, I see, gathering round her, the 
darkest dangers. No choice but flight, — no escape save with 
him or me. With me I — the rapturous thought, — the terri- 
ble conviction! With me I Mejnour, canst thou wonder 
that I would save her from myself ? , A moment in the life 
of ages, — a bubble on the shoreless sea. What else to me 
can be human love ? And in this exquisite nature of hers, — 
more pure, more spiritual, even in its young affections than 
ever heretofore the countless volumes of the heart, race after 
race, have given to my gaze: there is yet a deep-buried feel- 
ing that warns me of inevitable woe. Thou austere and 
remorseless Hierophant, — thou who hast sought to convert 
to our brotherhood every spirit that seemed to thee most 
high and bold, — even thou knowest, by horrible experience, 
how vain the hope to banish fear from the heart of woman. 
My life would be to her one marvel. Even if, on the other 
hand, I sought to guide her path through the realms of terror 
to the light, think of the Haunter of the Threshold, and 
shudder with me at the awful hazard ! I have endeavored 
to fill the Englishman’s ambition with the true glory of his 
art ; but the restless spirit of his ancestor still seems to 
whisper in him, and to attract to the spheres in which it lost 
its own wandering way. There is a mystery in man’s inheri- 
tance from his fathers. Peculiarities of the mind, as diseases 
of the body, rest dormant for generations, to revive in some 
distant descendant, baffle all treatment and elude all skill. 
Come to me from thy solitude amidst the wrecks of Rome ! 
I pant for a living confidant, — for one who in the old time 
has himself known jealousy and love. I have sought com- 
mune with Adon-Ai; but his presence, that once inspired 
such heavenly content with knowledge, and so serene a 
confidence in destiny, now only troubles and perplexes me. 
From the height from which I strive to search into the 
shadows of things to come, I see confused spectres of menace 
and wrath. Methinks I behold a ghastly limit to the won- 
drous existence I have held, — methinks that, after ages of 
the Ideal Life, I see my course merge into the most stormj' 


182 


ZANONI. 


whirlpool of the Keal. Where the stars opened to me their 
gates, there looms a scaffold, — thick steams of blood rise as 
from a shambles. What is more strange to me, a creature 
here, a very type of the false ideal of common men, — body 
and mind, a hideous mockery of the art that shapes the Beau- 
tiful, and the desires that seek the Perfect, ever haunts my 
vision amidst these perturbed and broken clouds of the fate 
to be. By, that shadowy scaffold it stands and gibbers at me, 
with lips dropping slime and gore. Come, O friend of the 
far- time ; for me, at least, thy wisdom has not purged away 
thy human affections. According to the bonds of our solemn 
order, reduced now to thee and myself, lone survivors of so 
many haughty and glorious aspirants, thou art pledged, too, 
to warn the descendant of those whom thy counsels sought 
to initiate into the great secret in a former age. The last of 
that bold Visconti who was once thy pupil is the relentless 
persecutor of this fair child. With thoughts of lust and 
murder, he is digging his own grave; thou niayest yet daunt 
him from his doom. And I also mysteriously, by the same 
bond, am pledged to obey, if he so command, a less guilty 
descendant of a baffled but nobler student. If he reject my 
counsel, and insist upon the pledge, Mejnour, thou wilt 
have another neophyte. Beware of another victim ! Come to 
me ! This will reach thee with all speed. Answer it by the 
pressure of one hand that I can dare to clasp 1 


ZANONI. 


183 


CHAPTER VIII. 

II lupo 

Ferito, credo, mi conobbe e 'ncontro 
Mi venne con la bocca sanguinosaA 

Aminta, At. iv. Sc, L 

At Naples, the tomb of Virgil , beetling over the cave 
of Posilipo, is reverenced, not with the feelings that 
should hallow the memory of the poet, hut the awe that 
wraps the memory of the magician. To his charms they 
ascribe the hollowing of that mountain passage; and 
tradition yet guards his tomb by the spirits he had raised 
to construct the cavern. This spot, in the immediate 
vicinity of Viola’s home, had often attracted her solitary 
footsteps. She had loved the dim and solemn fancies 
that beset her as she looked into the lengthened gloom 
of the grotto, or, ascending to the tomb, gazed from the 
rock on the dwarfed figures of the busy crowd that seemed 
to creep like insects along the windings of the soil 
below; and now, at noon, she bent thither her thought- 
ful way. She threaded the narrow path, she passed the 
gloomy vineyard that clambers up the rock, and gained 
the lofty spot, green with moss and luxuriant foliage, 
where the dust of him who yet soothes and elevates the 
minds of men is believed to rest. From afar rose the 
huge fortress of St. Elmo, frowning darkly amidst spires 
and domes that glittered in the sun. Lulled in its azure 
splendor lay the Siren’s sea; and the gray smoke of 

1 The wounded wolf, I think, knew me, and came to meet me 
with its bloody mouth. 


184 


ZANONI. 


Vesuvius, in the clear distance, soared like a moving 
pillar into the lucid sky. Motionless on the brink of 
the precipice, Viola looked upon the lovely and living 
world that stretched below; and the sullen vapor of 
Vesuvius fascinated her eye yet more than the scattered 
gardens, or the gleaming Caprea, smiling amidst the 
smiles of the sea. She heard not a step that had fol- 
lowed her on her path and started to hear a voice at 
hand. So sudden was the apparition of the form that 
stood by her side, emerging from the bushes that clad 
the crags, and so singular did it harmonize in its 
uncouth ugliness with the wild nature of the scene 
immediately around her, and the wizard traditions of 
the place, that the color left her cheek, and a faint cry 
broke from her lips. 

“Tush, pretty trembler! — do not be frightened at 
my face,” said the man, with a bitter smile. “After 
three months’ marriage, there is no difference between 
ugliness and beauty. Custom is a great leveller. I 
was coming to your house when I saw you leave it; so, 
as I have matters of importance to communicate, I 
ventured to follow your footsteps. My name is Jean 
Nicot, a name already favorably known as a French 
artist. The art of painting and the art of music are 
nearly connected, and the stage is an altar that unites 
the two.” 

There was something frank and unembarrassed in the 
man’s address that served to dispel the fear his appear- 
ance had occasioned. He seated himself, as he spoke, 
on a crag beside her, and, looking up steadily into her 
face, continued: — 

“ You are very beautiful, Viola Pisani, and I am not 
surprised at the number of your admirers. If I presume 
to place myself in the list, it is because I am the only 


ZANONL 


185 


one who loves thee honestly, and woos thee fairly. 
Nay, look not so indignant! Listen to me. Has the 

Prince di ever spoken to thee of marriage; or 

the beautiful impostor Zanoni, or the young blue-eyed 
Englishman, Clarence Glyndon ? It is marriage, — it 
is a home, it is safety, it is reputation, that I offer to 
thee ; and these last when the straight form grows 
crooked, and the bright eyes dim. What say you?” 
and he attempted to seize her hand. 

Viola shrunk from him, and silently turned to de- 
part. He rose abruptly and placed himself on her path. 

“ Actress, you must hear me! Do you know what 
this calling of the stage is in the eyes of prejudice, 
— that is, of the common opinion of mankind ? It is 
to be a princess before the lamps, and a Pariah before 
the day. No man believes in your virtue, no man 
credits your vows; you are the puppet that they consent 
to trick out with tinsel for their amusement, not an idol 
for their worship. Are you so enamoured of this career 
that you scorn even to think of security and honor? 
Perhaps you are different from what you seem. Per- 
haps you laugh at the prejudice that would degrade 
you, and would wisely turn it to advantage. Speak 
frankly to me; I have no prejudice either. Sweet one, 

I am sure we should agree. Now, this Prince di , 

I have a message from him. Shall I deliver it ? ” 

Never had Viola felt as she felt then; never had 
she so thoroughly seen all the perils of her forlorn con- 
dition and her fearful renown. Nicot continued: — 

“ Zanoni would but amuse himself with thy vanity ; 
Glyndon would despise himself, if he offered thee his 
name, and thee, if thou wouldst accept it; but the 

Prince di is in earnest, and he is wealthy. 

Listen ! ” 


186 


ZANONI. 


And Nicot approached his lips to her, and hissed a 
sentence which she did not suffer him to complete. 
She darted from him with one glance of unutterable 
disdain. As he strove to regain his hold of her arm, 
he lost his footing, and fell down the sides of the rock 
till, bruised and lacerated, a pine-branch saved him from 
the yawning abyss below. She heard his exclamation 
of rage and pain as she bounded down the path, and, 
without once turning to look behind, regained her home. 
By the porch stood Glyndon, conversing with Gionetta. 
She passed him abruptly, entered the house, and, sink- 
ing on the floor, wept loud and passionately. 

Glyndon, who had followed her in surprise, vainly 
sought to soothe and calm her. She would not reply 
to his questions; she did not seem to listen to his pro- 
testations of love, till suddenly, as ISTicot’s terrible pic- 
ture of the world’s judgment of that profession which 
to her younger thoughts had seemed the service of Song 
and the Beautiful, fonced itself upon her, she raised her 
face from her hands, and, looking steadily upon the 
Englishman, said, “False one, dost thou talk to me of 
love ? ” 

“ By my honor, words fail to tell thee how I love ! ” 

“Wilt thou give me thy home, thy name? Dost 
thou woo me as thy wife?” And at that moment, had 
Glyndon answered as his better angel would have coun- 
selled, perhaps, in that revolution of her whole mind 
which the words of Nicot had effected, which made 
her despise her very self, sicken of her lofty dreams, 
despair of the future , and distrust her whole ideal , — 
perhaps, I say, in restoring her self-esteem, — he would 
have won her confidence, and ultimately secured her 
love. But against the prompting oDhis nobler nature 
rose up at that sudden question all those doubts which, 


ZANONI. 


187 


as Zanoni had so well implied, made the true enemies of 
his soul. Was he thus suddenly to be entangled into a 
snare laid for his credulity by deceivers? Was she not 
instructed to seize the moment to force him into an 
avowal which prudence must repent? Was not the 
great actress rehearsing a premeditated part? He 
turned round, as these thoughts, the children of the 
world, passed .across him, for he literally fancied that 
he heard the sarcastic laugh of Mervale without. Nor 
was he deceived. Mervale was passing hy the threshold, 
and Gionetta had told him his friend was within. Who 
does not know the effect of the world’s laugh? Mervale 
was the personation of the world. The whole world 
seemed to shout derision in those ringing tones. He 
drew hack, — he recoiled. Viola followed him with her 
earnest, impatient eyes. At last, he faltered forth, “ Do 
all of thy profession, beautiful Viola, exact marriage as 
the sole condition of love? ” Oh, bitter question! Oh, 
poisoned taunt! He repented it the moment after. He 
was seized with remorse of reason, of feeling, and of 
conscience. He saw her form shrink, as it were, at 
his cruel words. He saw the color come and go, to 
leave the writhing lips like marble; and then, with a 
sad, gentle look of self-pity, rather than reproach, she 
pressed her hands tightly to her bosom, and said, — 

“ He was right! Pardon me, Englishman; I see now, 
indeed, that I am the Pariah and the outcast.” 

“ Hear me. I retract. Viola, Viola! it is for you to 
forgive! ” 

But Viola waved him from her, and, smiling mourn- 
fully as she passed him hy, glided from the chamber; 
and he did not dare to detain her. , 


188 


ZANONI. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Dafne. Ma, chi lung’ e d’Amor ? 

Tirsi. Chi leme e fugge. 

Dafne. E che giova fuggir da lui ch’ ha 1’ ali ? 

Tirsi. Amor nascente ha corteVali! i 

Aminta, At. ii. Sc. iL 

When Glyndon found himself without Viola’s house^ 
Mervale, still loitering at the door, seized his arm. 
Glyndon shook him off abruptly. 

“ Thou and thy counsels,” said he, bitterly, “have 
made me a coward and a wretch. But I will go home, 
— I will write to her. I will pour out my whole soul \ 
she will forgive me yet.” 

Mervale, who was a man of imperturbable temper, 
arranged his ruffles, which his friend’s angry gesture 
had a little discomposed, and not till Glyndon had 
exhausted himself awhile by passionate exclamations 
and reproaches, did the experienced angler begin to 
tighten the line. He then drew from Glyndon the 
explanation of v’hat had passed, and artfully sought not 
to irritate, but soothe him. Mervale, indeed, was by 
no means a had man ; he had stronger moral notions than 
are common amongst the young. He sincerely reproved 
his friend for harboring dishonorable intentions with 
regard to the actress, “ Because I would not have 

1 Dafne. But, who is far from Love 1 ■ — Tirsi. He who fears 
and flies. — Dafne. What use to flee from one who has wings ? — 
Tirsl The wings of Love, while he yet grows, are short. 


ZANONI. 


189 


her thy wife, I never dreamed that thou shouldst degrade 
her to thy mistress. Better of the two an imprudent 
match than an illicit connection. But pause yet, do not 
act on the impulse of the moment.” 

“ But there is no time to lose. 1 have promised to 
• Zanoni to give him my answer by to-morrow night. 
Later than that time, all option ceases.” 

“Ah!” said Mervale, “this seems suspicious. 
Explain yourself.” 

And Glyndon, in the earnestness of his passion, told 
his friend what had passed between himself and Zanoni, 

— suppressing only, he scarce knew why, the reference 
to his ancestor and the mysterious brotherhood. 

This recital gave to Mervale all the advantage he 
<;ould desire. Heavens! with what sound, shrewd com- 
mon-sense he talked. How evidently some charlatanic 
coalition between the actress, and perhaps, — who 
knows 1 — her clandestine protector, sated with posses- 
sion! How equivocal the character of one, — the posi- 
tion of the other! What cunning in the question of 
the actress! How profoundly had Glyndon, at the first 
suggestion of his sober reason, seen through the snare. 
What! was he to he thus mystically cajoled and hurried 
into a rash marriage, because Zanoni, a mere stranger, 
told him with a grave face that he must decide before 
the clock struck a certain hour ? 

“Do this at least,” said Mervale, reasonably enough, 

— “wait till the time expires; it is but another day. 
Baffle Zanoni. He tells thee that he will meet thee 
before midnight to-morrow, and defies thee to avoid 
him. Pooh! let us quit Naples for some neighboring 
place, where, unless he be indeed the Devil, he cannot 
possibly find us. Show him that you will not be led 
blindfold even into an act that you meditate yourself. 


190 


ZANONI. 


Defer to write to her, or to see her, till after to- 
morrow. This is all I ask. Then visit her, and decide 
for yourself. ” 

Glyndon was staggered. He could not combat the 
reasonings of his friend ; he was not convinced, but he 
hesitated; and at that moment Nicot passed them. He- 
turned round, and stopped, as he saw Glyndon. 

“ Well, and do you think still of the Pisani 1 ” 

“ Yes; and you — ” 

“ Have seen and conversed with her. She shall be 
Madame Nicot before this day week! I am going to 
the cafe^ in the Toledo; and hark ye, when next you 
meet your friend Signor Zanoni, tell him that he has 
twice crossed my path. Jean Nicot, though a painter, 
is a plain, honest man, and always pays his debts.” 

“ It is a good doctrine in money matters,” said Mer- 
vale; “ as to revenge, it is not so moral, and certainly 
not so wise. But is it in your love that Zanoni has 
crossed your path ? How that, if your suit prosper so 
well ? ” 

“Ask Viola Pisani that question. Bah! Glyndon, 
she is a prude only to thee. But I have no prejudices. 
Once more, farewell.” 

“ Bouse thyself, man! ” said Mervale, slapping Glyn- 
don on the shoulder. “ What think you of your fair 
one now ? ” 

“ This man must lie.” 

“ Will you write to her at once ? ” 

“ No ; if she be really playing a game, I could 
renounce her without a sigh. I will watch her closely ; 
and, at all events, Zanoni shall not be the master of my 
fate. Let us, as you advise, leave Naples at daybreak 
to-morrow. ” 


ZANONI. 


191 


CHAPTER X. 

O chiunque tu sia, che fuor d’ogni uao 
Pieghi Natura ad opre altere e strane, 

E, spiando i segreti, entri al- piu chiuso 
Spazi’ a tua voglia delle menti uinane — 

Deh, Dirarni ! ^ 

Gerus. Lib., Cant. x. xviii. 

Early the next morning the young Englishmen 
mounted their horses, and took the road towards Baiae. 
Glyndon left word at his hotel, that if Signor Zanoni 
sought him, it was in the neighborhood of that once 
celebrated watering-place of the ancients that he should 
be found. 

They passed by Viola’s house, but Glyndon resisted 
the temptation of pausing there; and after threading 
the grotto of Posilipo, they wound by a circuitous route 
back into the suburbs of the city, and took the opposite 
road, which conducts to Portici and Pompeii. It was 
late at noon when they arrived at the former of these 
places. Here they halted to dine; for Mervale had 
heard much of the excellence of the macaroni at Portici , 
and Mervale was a bon vivant. 

They put up at an inn of very humble pretensions, 
and dined under an awning. Mervale was more than 
usually gay; he pressed the Idcrhna upon his friend, 
and conversed gayly. 

^ O thou, whoever thou art, who through every use hendest 
Nature to works foreign and strange ; and by spying into her 
secrets, enterest at thy will into the closest recesses of the human 
mind, — 0 speak ! 0 tell me I 


192 


ZANONI. 


“Well, my .dear friend, we have foiled Signor 
Zanoni in one of his predictions at least. You will 
have no faith in him hereafter.” 

“ The ides are come , not gone. ” 

“Tush! If he be the soothsayer, you are not the 
Caesar. It is your vanity that makes you credulous. 
Thank Heaven, I do not think myself of such impor- 
tance that the operations of Nature should be changed 
in order to frighten me.” 

“ But why should the operations of Nature be changed 1 
There may be a deeper philosophy than we dream of, 
— a philosophy that discovers the secrets of Nature, but 
does not alter, by penetrating, its courses." 

“ Ah, you relapse into your heretical credulity ; you 
seriously suppose Zanoni to be a prophet, — a reader of 
the future; perhaps an associate of genii and spirits! ” 

Here the landlord, a little, fat, oily fellow, came 
up with a fresh bottle of Idcrima. He hoped their 
Excellencies were pleased. He was most touched — 
touched to the heart, that they liked the macaroni. 
Were their Excellencies going to Vesuvius? There 
was a slight eruption ; they could not see it where they 
were, but it was pretty, and would be prettier still after 
sunset. 

“ A capital idea ! ” cried Mervale. “ What say you, 
Glyndon ? ” 

“ I have not yet seen an eruption ; I should like it 
much.” 

“ But is there no danger ? ” asked the prudent Mervale. 

“ Oh, not at all ; the mountain is very civil at present;). 
It only plays a little, just to amuse their Excellencies 
the English.” 

“ Well, order the horses, and bring the bill; we will 
go before it is dark. Clarence, my friend, — nunc est 


ZANONI. 193 

hihendum ; but take care of the pede lihero^ which 
will scarce do for walking on lava! ” 

The bottle was finished, the bill paid; the gentlemen 
mounted, the landlord bowed, and they bent their way, 
in the cool of the delightful evening, towards R-esina. ' 

The wine, perhaps the excitement of his thoughts, 
animated Glyndon, whose unequal spirits were, at 
times, high and brilliant as those of a schoolboy 
released; and the laughter of the Northern tourists 
sounded oft and merrily along the melancholy domains 
of buried cities. 

Hesperus had lighted his lamp amidst the rosy skies 
as they arrived at Resina. Here they quitted their 
horses, and took mules and a guide. As the sky grew 
darker and more dark, the mountain fire burned w’ith 
an intense lustre. In various streaks and streamlets, 
the fountain of llame rolled down the dark summit, and 
the Englishmen began to feel increase upon them, as 
they ascended, that sensation of solemnity and awe 
which makes the very atmosphere that surrounds the 
Giant of the Plains of the Antique Hades. 

It was night, when, leaving the mules, they ascended 
on foot, accompanied by their guide, and a peasant who 
bore a rude torch. The guide was a conversable, garru- 
lous fellow, like most of his country and his calling ; 
and Mervale, who possessed a sociable temper, loved to 
amuse or to instruct himself on every incidental occasion. 

“Ah, Excellency,” said the guide, “your country- 
men have a strong passion for the volcano. Long life 
to them, they bring us plenty of money ! If our 
fortunes depended on the Neapolitans, we should 
starve.” 

“ True, they have no curiosity,” said Mervale. " Do 
you remember, Glyndon, the contempt with which that 


194 


ZANONI. 


old count said to us, ‘ You will go to Vesuvius, I sup* 
pose ? I have never been ; why should I go ? Y ou have 
cold, you have hunger, you have fatigue, you have 
danger, and all for nothing but to see fire, which looks 
just as well in a brazier as on a mountain.* Ha! ha! 
the old fellow was right.” 

“But, Excellency,” said the guide, “that is not all: 
some cavaliers think to ascend the mountain without 
our help. I am sure they deserve to tumble into the 
crater. ” 

“ They must be bold fellows to go alone ; you don’t 
often find such.” 

“ Sometimes among the French, signor. But the 
other night — I never was so frightened — 1 had been 
with an English party, and a lady had left a pocket-book 
on the mountain, where she had been sketching. She 
offered me a handsome sum to return for it, and bring 
it to her at Naples. So I went in the evening. I found 
it, sure enough, and was about to return, when I saw a 
figure that seemed to emerge from the crater itself. 
The air there was so pestiferous that I could not have 
conceived a human creature could breathe it, and live. 
I was so astounded that I stood still as a stone, till the 
figure came over the hot ashes, and stood before me, 
face to face. Santa Maria, what a head! ” 

“What! hideous?” 

“No; so beautiful, but so terrible. It had nothing 
human in its aspect.” 

“ And what said the salamander ? ” 

“ Nothing! It did not even seem to perceive me, 
though I was near as I am to you; but its eyes seemed 
to emerge prying into the air. It passed by me 
quickly, and, walking across a stream of burning lava, 
soon vanished on the other side of the mountain. I 


ZA>;ONL 


195 


was curious and foolhardy, and resolved' to see if 1 could 
bear the atmosphere which this visitor had left; but 
though 1 did not advance within thirty yards of the 
spot at which he had first appeared, I was driven hack 
by a vapor that wellnigh stifled me. Cospetto! I have 
spat blood ever since.” 

“ Now will I lay a wager that you fancy this fire-king 
must be Zanoni,” whispered Mervale, laughing. 

The little party had now arrived nearly at the summit 
of the mountain; and unspeakably grand was the spec- 
tacle on which they gazed. From the crater arose a 
vapor, intensely dark, that overspread the whole back- 
ground of the heavens; in the centre whereof rose a 
flame that assumed a form singularly beautiful. It 
might have been compared to a crest of gigantic feathers, 
the diadem of the mountain, high-arched, and drooping 
downward, with the hues delicately shaded off, and the 
whole shifting and tremulous eis the plumage on a war- 
rior’s helmet. The glare of the flame spread, luminous 
and crimson, over the dark and rugged ground on which 
they stood, and drew an innumerable variety of shadows 
from crag and hollow. An oppressive and sulphureous 
exhalation served to increase the gloomy and sublime 
terror of the place. But on turning from the mountain, 
and towards the distant and unseen ocean, the contrast 
was wonderfully great; the heavens serene and blue, 
the stars still and calm as the eyes of Divine Love. It 
was as if the realms of the opposing principles of Evil 
and of Good were brought in one view before the gaze 
of man ! Glyndon ■ — once more the enthusiast, the artist 
— was enchained and entranced by emotions vague and 
undefinable, half of delight and half of pain. Leaning 
on the shoulder of his friend, he gazed around him, and 
heard with deepening awe the rumbling of the earth 


196 


ZANONI. 


below, the wheels and voices of the Ministry of Kature 
in her darkest and most inscrutable recess. Suddenly, 
as a bomb from a shell, a huge stone was flung hundreds 
of yards up from the jaws of the crater, and falling with 
a mighty crash upon the rock below, split into ten 
thousand fragments, which bounded down the sides of 
the mountain, sparkling and groaning as they went. 
One of these, the largest fragment, struck the narrow 
space of soil between the Englishmen and the guide, not 
three feet from the spot where the former stood. Mer- 
vale uttered an exclamation of terror, and Glyndon held 
his breath, and shuddered. 

“ Diavolo ! ” cried the guide. “ Descend, Excellen- 
cies, — descend! we have not a moment to lose; follow 
me close! ” 

So saying, the guide and the peasant fled with as much 
swiftness as they were able to bring to hear. Mervale, 
ever more prompt and ready than his friend, imitated 
their example; and Glyndon, more confused than 
alarmed, followed close. But they had not gone many 
yards, before, with a rushing and sudden blast, came 
from the crater an enormous volume of vapor. It. 
pursued, — it overtook, it overspread them. It swept 
the light from the heavens. All was abrupt and utter 
darkness ; and through the gloom was heard the shout of 
the guide, already" distant, and lost in an instant amidst 
the sound of the rushing gust and the groans of the 
earth beneath. Glyndon paused. He was separated 
from his friend, from the guide. He was alone, — 
with the Darkness and the Terror. The vapor rolled 
sullenly away ; the form of the plumed fire was again, 
dimly visible, and its struggling and perturbed reflec- 
tion again shed a glow over the horrors of the path. 
Glyndon recovered himself, and sped onward. Below^ 


ZANONI. 


197 


he heard the voice of Mervale calling on him, though 
he no longer saw his form. The sound served as a 
guide. Dizzy and breathless, he bounded forward; 
when — hark ! — a sullen , slow rolling sounded in his ear ! 
He halted, — and turned hack to gaze. The fire had 
overflowed its course; it had opened itself a channel 
amidst the furrows of the mountain. The stream 
pursued him fast — fast; and the hot breath of the chas- 
ing and preternatural foe came closer and closer upon 
his cheek! He turned aside; he climbed desperately 
with hands and feet upon a crag that, to the right, broke 
the scathed and blasted level of the soil. The stream 
rolled beside and beneath him, and then taking a sudden 
wind round the spot on which he stood, interposed its 
liquid fire, — a broad and impassable barrier between 
his resting-place and escape. There he stood, cut off 
from descent, and with no alternative but to retrace his 
steps towards the crater, and thence seek, without guide 
or clew, some other pathway. 

For a moment his courage left him; he cried in 
despair, and in that overstrained pitch of voice which 
is never heard afar off, to the guide, to Mervale, to 
return to aid him. 

No answer came; and the Englishman, thus aban- 
doned solely to his own resources, felt his spirit and 
energy rise against the danger. He turned back, and 
ventured as far towards the crater as the noxious exhala- 
tion would permit; then, gazing below, carefully and 
deliberately he chalked out for himself a path by 
which he trusted to shun the direction the fire-stream 
had taken, and trod firmly and quickly over the crum- 
bling and heated strata. 

He had proceeded about fifty yards, when he halted 
abruptly; an unspeakable and unaccountable horror, not 


198 


ZANONI. 


hitherto experienced amidst all his peril, came over him. 
He shook in every limb; his muscles refused his will, — ► 
he felt, as it were, palsied and death-stricken. The 
horror, I say, was unaccountable, for the path seemed 
^lear and safe. The fire, above and behind, burned clear 
and far; and beyond, the stars lent him their cheering 
guidance. Ho obstacle was visible, — no danger seemed 
at hand. As thus, spell-bound and panic-stricken, he 
stood chained to the soil, — his breast heaving, large 
drops rolling down his brow, and his eyes starting wildly 
from their sockets, — he saw before him, at some dis- 
tance, gradually shaping itself more and more distinctly 
to his gaze, a colossal shadow; a shadow that seemed 
partially borrowed from the human shape, but immeasu- 
rably above the human stature; vague, dark, almost 
formless; and differing, he could not tell where or why, 
not only from the proportions, but also from the limbs 
and outline of man. 

The glare of the volcano, that seemed to shrink and 
collapse from this gigantic and appalling apparition, 
nevertheless threw its light, redly and steadily, upon 
another shape that stood beside, quiet and motionless; 
and it was, perhaps, the contrast of these two things — 
the Being and the Shadow — that impressed the beholder 
with the difference between them, — the Man and the 
Superhuman. It was but for a moment — nay, for the 
tenth part of a moment — that this sight was permitted 
to the wanderer. A second eddy of sulphureous vapors 
from the volcano, yet more rapidly, yet more densely 
than its predecessor, rolled over the mountain ; and either 
the nature of the exhalation, or the excess of liis own 
dread, was such, that Glyndon, after one wild gasp for 
breath, fell senseless on the earth. 


ZANONI. 


199 


CHAPTER XI. 


Was hab’ ich, 

Wenn icb nicht Alles babe '? — sprach der Jiingling.i 

Das Verschleierte Bild zu Sals. 

Mervale and the Italians arrived in safety at the spot 
where they had left the mules; and not till they had 
recovered their own alarm and breath did they think of 
Glyndon. But then, as the minutes passed, and he 
appeared not, Mervale, whose heart was as good at least 
as human hearts are in general, grew seriously alarmed. 
He insisted on returning to search for his friend; and by 
dint of prodigal promises prevailed at last on the guide 
to accompany him. * The lower part of the mountain lay 
calm and white in the starlight; and the guide’s practised 
eye could discern all objects on the surface at a consider- 
able distance. They had not, however, gone very far, 
before they perceived two forms slowly approaching them. 

As they came near, Mervale recognized the form of his 
friend. “ Thank Heaven, he is safe ! ” he cried, turning 
to the guide. 

“ Holy angels befriend us ! ” said the Italian, trem- 
bling, — “ behold the very being that crossed me last 
Friday night. It is he, but his face is human now ! ” 

“ Signor Inglese, ” said the voice of Zanoni, as Glyn- 
don — pale, wan, and silent — returned passively the 
joyous greeting of Mervale, — “ Signor Inglese, I told 
your friend that we should meet to-night. You see you 
have not foiled my prediction.” 

1 “ What have I, if 1 possess not All 1 ” said the youth. 


200 


ZANONI. 


“ But how ? — but where ? ” stammered Mervale, in 
great confusion and surprise. 

“ I found your friend stretched on the ground, over- 
powered by the mephitic exhalation of the crater. I bore 
him to a purer atmosphere ; and as I know the mountain 
well, I have conducted him safely to you. This is all 
our history. You see, sir, that were it not for that 
prophecy which you desired to frustrate, your friend 
would ere this time have been a corpse; one minute 
more, and the vapor had done its work. Adieu; good- 
night, and pleasant dreams. ” 

“ But, my preserver, you will not leave us ? ” said 
Glyndon, anxiously, and speaking for the first time. 
“ Will you not return with us ? ” 

Zanoni paused, and drew Glyndon aside. “ Young 
man, ” said he, gravely, “ it is necessary that we should 
again meet to-night. It is necessary that you should, 
ere the first hour of morning, decide on your own fate. 
I knov/ that you have insulted her whom you profess to 
love. It is not too late to repent. Consult not your 
friend : he is sensible and wise ; but not now is his wisdom 
needed. There are times in life when, from the imagi- 
nation , and not the reason, should wisdom come, — this, 
for you, is one of them. I ask not your answer now. 
Collect your thoughts, — recover your jaded and scat- 
tered spirits. It wants two hours of midnight. Before 
midnight I will be with you. ” 

“ Incomprehensible being ! ” replied the Englishman, 
“ I would leave the life you have preserved in your 
own hands ; but what I have seen this night has swept 
even Viola from my thoughts. A fiercer desire than 
that of love burns in my veins, — the desire not to 
resemble but to surpass my kind ; the desire to penetrate 
and to share the secret of your own existence the 


ZANONI. 


201 


desire of a preternatural knowledge and unearthly power. 
I make my choice. In my ancestor’s name, I adjure 
and remind thee of thy pledge. Instruct me; school 
me; make me thine; and I surrender to thee at once, 
and without a murmur, the woman whom, till I saw thee, 
I would have defied a world to obtain.” 

“ I bid thee consider well: on the one hand, Viola, a 
tranquil home, a happy and serene life; on the other 
hand, all is darkness, — darkness, that even these eyes 
cannot penetrate.” 

“ But thou hast told me, that if I wed Viola, I must 
be contented with the common existence, — if I refuse, 
it is to aspire to thy knowledge and thy power. ” 

“Vain man, knowledge and power are not happiness.” 

“ But they are better than happiness. Say ! — if I 
marry Viola, wilt thou he my master, — my guide] Say 
this, and I am resolved.” 

“ It were impossible. ” 

“ Then I renounce her ? I renounce love. I renounce 
happiness. Welcome solitude, — welcome despair; if 
they are the entrances to thy dark and sublime 
secret. ” 

“ I will not take thy answer now. Before the last 
hour of night thou shalt give it in one word, — ay or no ! 
Farewell till then.” 

Zanoni waved his hand, and, descending rapidly, was 
seen no more. 

Glyndon rejoined his impatient and wondering friend ; 
but Mervale, gazing on his face, saw that a great change 
had passed there. The flexile and dubious expression 
of youth was forever gone. The features were locked, 
rigid, and stern; and so faded was the natural bloom, 
that an hour seemed to have done the work of years. 


202 


ZANONI. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Was ist ’s 

Das hinter diesem Schleier sich verbirgt 1 ^ 

Das Verschleierte Bild zu Sais. 

On returning from Vesuvius or Pompeii, you enter 
Xaples through its most animated, its most Neapolitan 
quarter, — through that quarter in which modern life 
most closely resembles the ancient; and in which, when, 
on a fair-day, the thoroughfare swarms alike with Indo- 
lence and Trade, you are impressed at once with the 
recollection of that restless, lively race from which the 
population of Naples derives its origin; so that in one 
day you may see at Pompeii the habitations of a remote 
age; and on the Mole, at Naples, you may imagine you 
behold the very beings with whom those habitations had 
been peopled. 

But now, as the Englishmen rode slowly through the 
deserted streets, lighted but by the lamps of heaven, all 
the gayety of day was hushed and breathless. Here and 
there, stretched under a portico or a dingy booth, were 
sleeping groups of houseless Lazzaroni, — a tribe now 
merging its indolent individuality amidst an energetic 
and active population. 

The Englishmen rode on in silence ; for Glyndon 
neither appeared to heed nor hear the questions and 
comments of Mervale, and Mervale himseK was almost 
as weary as the jaded animal he bestrode. 

1 What is it that conceals itself behind this veil 1 


ZANONI. 


203 


Suddenly the silence of earth and ocean was broken 
by the sound of a distant clock that proclaimed the 
quarter preceding the last hour of night. Glyndon 
started from his reverie, and looked anxiously round. 
As the final stroke died, the noise of hoofs rung on the 
broad stones of the pavement, and from a narrow street 
to the right emerged the form of a solitary horseman. 
He neared the Englishmen, and Glyndon recognized the 
features and mien of Zanoni. 

“ What! do we meet again, signor? ” said Mervale, in 
a vexed but drowsy tone. 

“ Your friend and I have business together, ” replied 
Zanoni, as he wheeled his steed to the side of Glyndon. 
“ But it will be soon transacted. Perhaps you, sir, will 
ride on to your hotel. ” 

“ Alone!” 

“ There is no danger ! ” returned Zanoni, with a slight 
expression of disdain in his voice. 

“ None to me; but to Glyndon? ” 

“ Danger from me ! Ah, perhaps you are right. ” 

“ Go on, my dear Mervale, ” said Glyndon ; “ I will 
join you before you reach the hotel.” 

Mervale nodded, whistled, and pushed his horse into a 
kind of amble. 

“ Now your answer, — quick ? ” 

“I have decided. The love of Viola has vanished 
from my heart. The pursuit is over.” 

" You have decided ? ” 

“ I have ; and now my reward. ” 

“Thy reward! Well; ere this hour to-morrow it 
shall await thee.” 

Zanoni gave the rein to his horse ; it sprang forward 
with a bound; the sparks flew from its hoofs, and horse 


204 


ZANONI. 


and rider disappeared amidst the shadows of the street 
whence they had emerged. 

Mervale was surprised to see his friend by his side, a 
minute after they had parted. 

“ What has passed between you and Zanoni ? ” 

" Mervale, do not ask me to-night! I am in a dream.’' 
" I do not wonder at it, for even I am in a sleep. Let 
us push on.” ^ 

In the retirement of his chamber, Glyndon sought to 
recollect his thoughts. He sat down on the foot of his 
bed, and pressed his hands tightly to his throbbing 
temples. The events of the last few hours; the appari- 
tion of the gigantic and shadowy Companion of the 
Mystic, amidst the fires and clouds of Vesuvius; the 
strange encounter with Zanoni himself, on a spot in 
which he could never, by ordinary reasoning, have cal- 
culated on finding Glyndon, filled his mind with emo- 
tions, in which terror and aw’e the least prevailed. 
A fire, the train of which had been long laid, was 
lighted at his heart, — the asbestos-fire that, once lit, is 
never to be quenched. All his early aspirations — his 
young ambition, his longings for the laurel — were 
merged in one passionate yearning to overpass the bounds 
of the common knowledge of man, and reach that solemn 
spot, between two worlds, on which the mysterious 
stranger appeared to have fixed his home. 

Far from recalling with renewed affright the remem- 
brance of the apparition that had so a'ppalled him, the 
recollection only served to kindle and concentrate his 
curiosity into a burning focus. He had said aright, 
— love had vanished from his heart ; there was no 
longer a serene space amidst its disordered elements for 
human affection to move and breathe. The enthusiast 
was rapt from this earth; and he would have surren- 


ZANONI. 


205 


dered all that mortal beauty ever promised, that mortal 
hope ever whispered, for one hour with Zanoni beyond 
the portals of the visible world. 

He rose, oppressed and fevered with the new thoughts 
that raged within him, and threw open his casement 
for air. The ocean lay suffused in the starry light, and 
the stillness of the heavens never more eloquently 
preached the morality of repose to the madness of 
earthly passions. But such was Glyndon’s mood that 
their very hush only served to deepen the wild desires 
that preyed upon his soul; and the solemn stars, that 
are mysteries in themselves, seemed, by a kindred sym- 
pathy, to agitate the wings of the spirit no longer con- 
tented with its cage. As he gazed, a star shot from its 
brethren, and vanished from the depth of space! 


206 


ZANONL 


CHAPTER XIII. 

O, be gone ! 

Bj Heaven, I love thee better than myself, 

For I came hither armed against myself. 

Romeo and Juliet. 

The young actress and Gionetta had returned from the 
theatre; and Viola fatigued and exhausted, had thrown 
herself on a sofa, while Gionetta busied herself with 
the long tresses which, released from the fillet that 
bound them, half-concealed the form of the actress, like 
a veil of threads of gold. As she smoothed the luxu- 
riant locks, the old nurse ran gossiping on about the 
little events of the night, the scandal and politics of the 
scenes and the tireroom. Gionetta was a worthy soul. 
Almanzor, in Dryden’s tragedy of “ Almahide,” did not 
change sides with more gallant indifference than the 
exemplary nurse. She was at last grieved and scandal- 
ized that Viola had not selected one chosen cavalier. 
But the choice she left wholly to her f§ir charge. 
Zegri or Absncerrage, Glyndon or Zanoni, it had been 
the same to her, except that the rumors she had collected 
respecting the latter, combined with his own recommen- 
dations of his rival, had given her preference to the Eng- 
lishman. She interpreted ill the impatient and heavy 
sigh with which Viola greeted her praises of Glyndon, 
and her wonder that he had of late so neglected his 
attentions behind the scenes, and she exhausted all her 
powers of panegyric upon the supposed object of the 
sigh. “And then, too,’’ she said, “if nothing else 


ZANONI. 207 

were to be said against tlie other signor, it is enough 
that he is about to leave Naples.” 

“ Leave Naples! — Zanoni 1 ” 

“ Yes, darling! In passing by the Mole to-day, there 
was a crowd round some outlandish-looking sailors. 
His ship arrived this morning, and anchors in the 
bay. The sailors say that they are to be prepared to 
sail with the first wind; they were taking in fresh 
stores. They — ” 

“ Leave me, Gionetta! Leave me! ” 

The time had already passed when the girl could con- 
fide in Gionetta. Her thoughts had advanced to that 
point when the heart recoils from all confidence, and 
feels that it cannot be comprehended. Alone now, in 
the principal apartment of the house, she paced its 
narrow boundaries with tremulous and agitated steps: 
she recalled the frightful suit of Nicot, — the injurious 
taunt of Glyndon ; and she sickened at the remembrance 
of the hollow applauses which, bestowed on the actress, 
not the woman, only subjected her to contumely and 
insult. In that room the recollection of her father’s 
death, the withered laurel and the broken chords, rose 
chillingly before her. Hers, she felt, was a yet gloomier 
fate, — the chords may break while the laurel is yet 
green. The lamp, waning in its socket, burned pale 
and dim, and her eyes instinctively turned from the 
darker corner of the room. Orphan, by the hearth of 
thy parent, dost thou fear the presence of the dead! 

And was Zanoni indeed about to quit Naples? 
Should she see him no more? Oh, fool, to think that 
there was grief in any other thought! The past! — that 
was gone ! The future ! — there was no future to her, 
Zanoni absent! But this was the night of the third 
day on which Zanoni had told her that, come what 


208 


ZANONI. 


might, he would visit her again. It was, then, if she 
might believe him, some appointed crisis in her fate; 
and how should she tell him of Glyndon’s hateful 
words ? The pure and the proud mind can never confide 
its wrongs to another, only its triumphs and its happi- 
ness. But at that late hour would Zanoni visit her, — 
could she receive him? Midnight was at hand. Still 
in undefined suspense, in intense anxiety, she lingered 
in the room. The quarter before midnight sounded, 
dull and distant. All was still, and she was about to 
pass to her sleeping-room, when she heard the hoofs of 
a horse at full speed; the sound ceased, there was a 
knock at the door. Her heart beat violently ; but fear 
gave way to another sentiment when she heard a voice, 
too well known, calling on her name. She paused, and 
then, with the fearlessness of innocence, descended and 
unbarred the door. 

Zanoni entered with a light and hasty step. His 
horseman’s cloak fitted tightly to his noble form, and 
his broad hat threw a gloomy shade over his command- 
ing features. 

The girl followed him into the room she had just left, 
trembling and blushing deeply, and stood before him 
with the lamp she held shining upward on her cheek 
and the long hair that fell like a shower of light over 
the half-clad shoulders and heaving bust. 

“ Viola,” said Zanoni, in a voice that spoke deep 
emotion, “I am by thy side once more to save thee. 
Not a moment is to be lost. Thou must fly with me, 

or remain the victim of the Prince di . I would 

have made the charge I now undertake another’s; thou 
knowest I would, — thou knowest it! — but he is not 
worthy of thee, the cold Englishman! I throw myself 
at thy feet; have trust in me, and fly.” 


ZANONI. 


209 


He grasped her hand passionately as he dropped on his 
knee, and looked up into her face with his bright, 
beseeching eyes. 

“Fly with thee!” said Viola, scarce believing her 
senses. 

" With me^ Name, fame, honor, — all will be sacri- 
ficed if thou dost not.” 

“Then — then,” said the wild girl, falteringly, and 
turning aside her face , — “ then I am not indifferent to 
thee ; thou wouldst not give me to another ? ” 

Zanoni was silent; hut his breast heaved, his cheeks 
flushed, his eyes darted dark and impassioned fire. 

“ Speak! ” exclaimed Viola, in jealous suspicion of his 
silence. 

“ Indifferent to me! No; hut I dare not yet say that 
I love thee.” 

“ Then what matters my fate ? ” said Viola, turning 
pale, and shrinking from his side; “ leave me, — I fear 
no danger. My life, and therefore my honor, is in mine 
own hands.” 

“Be not so mad,” said Zanoni. “Hark! do you 
hear the neigh of my steed? — it is an alarm that 
warns us of the approaching peril. Haste, or you are 
lost! ” 

“ Why dost thou care for me ? ” said the girl, bitterly. 
“Thou hast read my heart; thou knowest that thou art 
become the lord of my destiny. But to be hound 
beneath the weight of a cold obligation; to he the 
beggar on the eyes of indifference ; to cast myself on one 
who loves me not, — that were indeed the vilest sin of 
my sex. Ah, Zanoni, rather let me die! ” 

She had thrown back her clustering hair from hei 
face while she spoke ; and as she now stood, with hej 
arms drooping mournfully, and her hands clasped together 

14 


210 


ZANONI. 


with the proud bitterness of her wayward spirit, giving 
new zest and charm to her singular beauty it was 
impossible to conceive a sight more irresistible to the eye 
and the heart. 

“ Tempt me not to thine own danger, — perhaps 
destruction! ” exclaimed Zanoni, in faltering accents. 
“Thou canst not dream of what thou wouldst demand, 
— come! ” and, advancing, he wound his arm round her 
waist. “ Come, Viola; believe at least in my friend- 
ship, my honor, my protection — ” 

“ And not thy love,” said the Italian, turning on him 
her reproachful eyes. Those eyes met his, and he could 
not withdraw from the charm of their gaze. He felt her 
heart throbbing beneath his own ; her breath came warm 
upon his cheek. He trembled, — he! the lofty, the 
mysterious Zanoni, who seemed to stand aloof from his 
race. With a deep and burning sigh, he murmured, 
“ Viola, I love thee! Oh!” he continued passionately, 
and, releasing his hold, he threw himself abruptly at 
her feet, “ I no more command, — as woman should be 
wooed, I woo thee.' From the first glance of those eyes, 
from the first sound of thy voice, thou becamest too 
fatally dear to me. Thou speakest of fascination, — it 
lives and it breathes in thee! 1 fled from Naples to fly 
from thy presence, — it pursued me. Months, years 
passed, and thy sweet face still shone upon my heart. 

I returned, because I pictured thee alone and sorrowful 
in the world, and knew that dangers, from which I 
might save thee, were gathering near thee and around. 
Beautiful Soul! whose leaves I have read with rever- 
ence, it was for thy sake, thine alone, that I would have 
given thee to one who might make thee happier on earth 
than I can. Viola! Viola! thou knowest not — never 
canst thou know — how dear thou art to me! '■ 


ZANONI. 


211 


It is in vain to seek for words to describe the delight 
= — the proud, the full, the complete, and the entire 
delight — that filled the heart of the Neapolitan. He 
whom she had considered too lofty even for love, — 
more humble to her than those she had half-despised! 
She was silent, hut her eyes spoke to him; and then 
slowly, as aware, at last, that the human love had 
advanced on the ideal, she shrank into the terrors of a 
modest and virtuous nature. She did not dare, — she 
did not dream to ask him the question she had so fear- 
lessly made to Glyndon; hut she felt a sudden coldness, 
— a sense that a barrier was yet between love and love. 
“Oh, Zanoni!” she murmured, with downcast eyes, 
“ ask me not to fly with thee ; tempt me not to my 
shame. Thou wouldst protect me from others. Oh, 
protect me from thyself ! ” 

“Poor orphan!'" said he, tenderly, “and canst thou 
think that I ask from thee one sacrifice, — still less the 
greatest that woman can give to love 1 As my wife I 
woo thee, and by every tie, and by every vow that can 
hallow and endear affection. Alas! they have belied, 
love to thee indeed, if thou dost not know the religion 
that belongs to it! They who truly love would seek, 
for the treasure they obtain, every bond that can make 
it lasting and secure. Viola, weep not, unless thou 
givest me the holy right to kiss away thy tears! " 

And that beautiful face, no more averted, drooped 
upon his bosom; and as he bent down, his lips sought 
the rosy mouth : a long and burning kiss, — danger, life, 
the world was forgotten ! Suddenly Zanoni tore himself 
from her. 

“ Hearest thou the wind that sighs, and dies away 1 
As that wind, my power to preserve thee, to guard thee, 
to foresee the storm in thy skies, is gone. No matter. 


212 


ZANONL 


Haste, haste ; and may love supply the loss of all that 
it has dared to sacrifice ! Come.” 

Viola hesitated no more. She threw her mantle over 
her shoulders, and gathered up her dishevelled hair; a 
moment, and she was prepared, when a sudden crash 
was heard below. 

"Too late!^ — fool that I was, too late!” cried 
Zanoni, in a sharp tone of agony, as he hurried to the 
door. He opened it, only to be borne hack by the press 
of armed men. The room literally swarmed with the 
followers of the ravisher, masked, and armed to the 
teeth. 

Viola was already in the grasp of two of the myrmi- 
dons. Her shriek smote the ear of Zanoni. He sprang 
forward; and Viola heard his wild cry in a foreign 
tongue. She saw the blades of the ruffians pointed at 
his breast! She lost her senses; and when she recov- 
ered, she found herself gagged, and in a carriage that 
was driven rapidly, by the side of a masked and motion- 
less figure. The carriage stopped at the portals of a 
gloomy mansion. The gates opened noiselessly ; a broad 
flight of steps, brilliantly illumined, was before her. 
She was in the palace of the Prince di . 


ZANONI. 


213 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Ma lasciamo, per Dio, Signore, ormai 
Di parlar d’ ira, e di cantar di morte.^ 

Orl. Fur., Canto xvii xvii. 

The young actress was led to, and left alone in a cham- 
ber adorned with all the luxurious and half-Eastern taste 
that at one time characterized the palaces of the great 
seigneurs of Italy. Her first thought was for Zanoni. 
Was he yet living? Had he escaped unscathed the 
blades of the foe, — her new treasure, the new light of 
her life, her lord, at last her lover? 

She had short time for reflection. She heard steps 
approaching the chamber; she drew back, but trembled 
not. A courage not of herself, never known before, 
sparkled in her eyes, and dilated her stature. Living 
or dead, she would be faithful still to Zanoni! There 
was a new motive to the preservation of honor. The 
door opened, and the prince entered in the gorgeous and 
gaudy costume still worn at that time in Naples. 

“ Fair and cruel one,” said he, advancing with a half- 
sneer upon his lip, “ thou wilt not too harshly blame 
the violence of love.” He attempted to take her hand 
as he spoke. 

“Nay,” said he, as she recoiled, “reflect that thou 
art now in the power of one that never faltered in the 
pursuit of an object less dear to him than thou art. 

1 But leave me, I solemnly conjure thee, signor, to speak of 
wrath, and to sing of death. 


214 


ZANONI. 


Thy lover, presumptuous though he be, is not by to 
save thee. Mine thou art; hut instead of thy master, 
suffer me to he thy slave.” 

‘‘Prince,” said Viola, with a stern gravity, “your 
boast is in vain. Your power! I am not in your 
power. Life and death are in my own hands. I will 
not defy ; hut I do not fear you. I feel — and in some 
feelings,” added Viola, with a solemnity almost thrill- 
ing, “ there is all the strength, and all the divinity of 
knowledge — I feel that I am safe even here ; but you — 

you. Prince di , have brought danger to your home 

and hearth! ” 

The Neapolitan seemed startled by an earnestness and 
boldness he was but little prepared for. He was not, 
however, a man easily intimidated or deterred from any 
purpose he had formed; and, approaching Viola, he was 
about to reply with much warmth, real or affected^ 
when, a knock was heard at the door of the chamber. 
The sound was repeated, and the prince, chafed at the 
interruption, opened the door and demanded impatiently 
who had ventured to disobey his orders, and invade his 
leisure. Mascari presented himself, pale and agitated ^ 
‘My lord,” said he, in a whisper, “pardon me; hut a 
stranger is below, who insists on seeing you; and, from 
some words he let fall, I judged it advisable even to 
infringe your commands.” 

“A stranger! — and at this hour! What business 
can he pretend ? Why was he even admitted ? ” 

“ He asserts that your life is in imminent danger. 
The source whence it proceeds he will relate to your 
Excellency alone.” 

The prince frowned; but his color changed. He 
mused a moment, and then, re-entering the chamber 
and advancing towards Viola, he said, — 


ZANONI. 


215 


"Believe me, fair creature, I have no wish to take 
advantage of my power. I would fain trust alone to the 
gentler authorities of affection. Hold yourself queen 
within these walls more absolutely than you have ever 
enacted that part on the stage. To-night, farewell! 
May your sleep be calm, and your dreams propitious to 
my hopes.” 

With these words he retired, and in a few moments 
Viola was surrounded by officious attendants, whom 
she at length, with some difficulty, dismissed; and, 
refusing to retire to rest, she spent the night in exam- 
ining, the chamber, which she found was secured, and in 
thoughts of Zanoni, in whose power she felt an almost 
preternatural confidence. 

Meanwhile the prince descended the stairs and 
sought the room into which the stranger had been 
shown. 

He found the visitor wrapped from head to foot in a 
long robe, half-gown, half-mantle, such as was some- 
times worn by ecclesiastics. The face of this stranger 
was remarkable. So sunburnt and swarthy were his 
hues, that he must, apparently, have derived his origin 
amongst the races of the farthest East. His forehead 
was lofty, and his eyes so penetrating yet so calm in 
their gaze that the prince shrank from them as we shrink 
from a questioner who is drawing forth the guiltiest 
secret of our hearts. 

“What would you with me?” asked the prince, 
motioning his visitor to a seat. 

“Prince of ,” said the stranger, in a voice deep 

and sweet, but foreign in its accent, — “ son of the most 
energetic and masculine race that ever applied godlike 
genius to the service of Human Will, with its winding 
wickedness and its stubborn grandeur; descendant of 


216 


ZANONI. 


the great Visconti in whose chronicles lies the history 
of Italy in her palmy day, and in whose rise was the 
development of the mightiest intellect, ripened by the 
most restless ambition, — I come to gaze upon the last 
star in a darkening firmament. By this hour to-morrow 
space shall know it not. Man, unless thy whole nature 
change, thy days are numbered! ” 

“ What means this jargon ? ” said the prince, in 
visible astonishment and secret awe. “ Comest thoul^o 
menace me in my own halls, or wouldst thou warn me 
of a danger? Art thou some itinerant mountebank, or 
some unguessed-of friend? Speak out, and plainly. 
What danger threatens me ? ” 

“ Zanoni and thy ancestor’s sword,” replied the 
stranger. 

“Ha! ha!” said the prince, laughing scornfully; “I 
half-suspected thee from the first. Thou art then the 
accomplice or the tool of that most dexterous, but, at 
present, defeated charlatan? And I suppose thou wilt 
tell me that if I were to release a certain captive I have 
made, the danger would vanish, and the hand of the 
dial would he put back ? ” 

“ Judge of me as thou wilt, Prince di . I con- 

fess my knowledge of Zanoni. Thou, too, wilt know 
his power, but not till it consume thee. I would save, 
therefore I warn thee. Dost thou ask me why? I 
will tell thee. Canst thou remember to have heard 
wild tales of thy grandsire ; of his desire for a knowl- 
edge that passes that of the schools and cloisters; of a 
strange man from the East who was his familiar and 
master in lore against which the Vatican has, from age 
to age, launched its mimic thunder? Dost thou call to 
mind the fortunes of thy ancestor ? — how he succeeded 
in youth to little but a name; how, after a career wild 


ZANONT. 


217 


and dissolute as thine, he disappeared from Milan, a 
pauper, and a self-exile; how, after years spent, none 
knew in what climes or in what pursuits, he again 
revisited the city where his progenitors had reigned ; 
how with him came the wise man of the East, the mys- 
tic Mejnour; how they who beheld him, beheld with 
amaze and fear that time had ploughed no furrow on his 
brow; that youth seemed fixed, as by a spell, upon his 
face and form? Dost thou not know that from that 
hour his fortunes rose ? Kinsmen the most remote died ; 
estate upon estate fell into the hands of the ruined 
noble. He became the guide of princes, the first mag- 
nate of Italy. He founded anew the house of which 
thou art the last lineal upholder, and transferred his 
splendor from Milan to the Sicilian realms. Visions of 
high ambition were then present with him nightly and 
daily. Had he lived, Italy would have known a new 
dynasty, and the Visconti would have reigned over 
Magna-Grsecia. He was a man such as the world rarely 
sees; but his ends, too earthly, were at war with the 
means he sought. Had his ambition been more or less, 
he had been worthy of a realm mightier than the Caesars 
swayed; worthy of our solemn order; worthy of the 
fellowship of Mejnour, whom you now behold before 
you. ” 

The prince, who had listened with deep and breath- 
less attention to the words of his singular guest, started 
from his seat at his last words. “ Impostor! ” he cried, 
“ can you dare thus to play with my credulity ? Sixty 
years have flown since my grandsire died; were he 
living, he had passed his hundred and twentieth year; 
and you, whose old age is erect and vigorous, have the 
assurance to pretend to have been his contemporary! 
But you have imperfectly learned your tale. You know 


218 


ZANONI. 


not, it seems, that my grandsire, wise and illustrious 
indeed, in all save his faith in a charlatan, was found 
dead in his bed, in the very hour when his colossal plans 
were ripe for execution, and that Mejnour was guilty of 
his murder. ” 

“Alas! ” answered the stranger, in a voice of great 
sadness, “ had he but listened to Mejnour, >— had he but 
delayed the last and most perilous ordeal of daring wis- 
dom until the requisite training and initiation had been 
completed, — your ancestor would have stood with me 
upon an eminence which the waters of Death itself wash 
everlastingly, but cannot overflow. Your grandsire 
resisted my fervent prayers, disobeyed my most absolute 
commands, and in the sublime rashness of a soul that 
panted for secrets, which he who desires orbs and scep- 
tres never can obtain, perished, the victim of his own 
frenzy.” 

“ He was poisoned, and Mejnour fled.” 

“ Mejnour fled not,” answered the stranger, proudly, 
— “Mejnour could not fly from danger; for to him 
danger is a thing long left behind. It was the day 
before the duke took the fatal draught which he 
believed was to confer on the mortal the immortal 
boon, that, finding my power over him was gone, I 
abandoned him to his doom. But a truce with this: 
I loved your grandsire! I would save the last of his 
race. Oppose not thyself to Zanoni. Yield not thy 
soul to thine evil passions. Draw back from the preci- 
pice while there is yet time. In thy front, and in 
thine eyes, I detect some of that diviner glory which 
belonged to thy race. Thou hast in thee some germs of 
their hereditary genius, but they are choked up by worse 
than thy hereditary vices. Becollect that by genius thy 
house rose; by vice it ever failed to perpetuate its 


ZANONI. 


219 


power. In the laws which regulate the universe, it is 
decreed that nothing wicked can long endure. Be wise, 
and let history warn thee. Thou standest on the verge 
of two worlds, the past and the future ; and voices from 
either shriek omen in thy ear, I have dorie. I bid thee 
farewell ! ” 

“Not so; thou shalt not quit these walls. I will 
make experiment of thy boasted power. What, ho 
there ! — ho ! ” 

The prince shouted; the room was filled with his 
minions. 

“Seize that man!” he cried, pointing to the spot 
which had been filled by the form of Mejnour, To his 
inconceivable amaze and horror, the spot was vacant. 
The mysterious stranger had vanished like a dream; 
but a thin and fragrant mist undulated, in pale vol- 
umes, round the walls of the chamber. “ Look to my 
lord,” cried Mascari. The prince had fallen to the 
•floor insensible. For many hours he seemed in a kind 
of trance. When he recovered, he dismissed his atten- 
dants, and his step was heard in his chamber, pacing to 
and fro, with heavy and disordered strides. Not till 
an hour before his banquet the next day did he seem 
restored to his wonted self. 


220 


ZANONI. 


CHAPTER XV. 

Dime ! come poss’ io 

Altri trovar, se me trovar non posso.^ 

Amint., At. i. Sc. ii. 

The sleep of Glyndon, the night after his last inter* 
view with Zanoni, was unusually profound; and the sun 
streamed full upon his eyes as he opened them to the 
day. He rose refreshed, and with a strange sentiment 
of calmness that seemed more the result of resolution 
than exhaustion. The incidents and emotions of the 
past night had settled into distinct and clear impres- 
sions. He thought of them hut slightly, — he thought 
rather of the future. He was as one of the initiated in 
the old Egyptian mysteries who have crossed the gate 
only to long more ardently for the penetralia. 

He dressed himself, and was relieved to find that 
Mervale had joined a party of his countrymen on an 
excursion to Ischia. He spent the heat of noon in 
thoughtful solitude, and gradually the image of- Viola 
returned to his heart. It was a holy — for it was a 
human — image. He had resigned her; and though he 
repented not, he was troubled at the thought that repent- 
ance would have come too late. 

He started impatiently from his seat, and strode with 
rapid steps to the humble abode of the actress. 

The distance was considerable, and the air oppressive. 
Glyndon arrived at the door breathless and heated. 
He knocked; no answer came. He lifted the latch 
^ ,Alas ! how can I find another when I cannot find myself ? 


ZANONI. 


221 


and entered. He ascended the stairs; no sound, no 
sight of life met his ear and eye. In the front chamber, 
on a table, lay the guitar of the actress, and some manu- 
script parts in the favorite operas. He paused, and, 
summoning courage, tapped at the door which seemed 
to lead into the inner apartment. The door was ajar: 
and, hearing no sound within, he pushed it open. It 
was the sleeping-chamber of the young actress, that 
holiest ground to a lover; and well did the place 
become the presiding deity : none of the tawdry finery 
of the profession was visible, on the one hand; none of 
the slovenly disorder common to the humbler classes of 
the South, on the other. All was pure ■ and simple ; 
eyen the ornaments were those of an innocent refine- 
ment, — a few books, placed carefully on shelves, a few 
half-faded flowers in an earthen vase, which was mod- 
elled and painted in the Etruscan fashion. The sunlight 
streamed over the snowy draperies of the bed, and a few 
■articles of clothing on the chair beside it. Viola was 
not there ; but the nurse ! — was she gone also ? He 
made the house « resound with the name of Gionetta, 
but there was not even an echo to reply. At last, as 
he reluctantly quitted^ the desolate abode, he perceived 
Gionetta coming towards him from the street. The 
poor old woman uttered an exclamation of joy on see- 
ing him ; but, to their mutual disappointment, neither 
had any cheerful tidings or satisfactory explanation to 
afford the other. Gionetta had been aroused from her 
slumber the night before by the noise in the rooms 
below; but ere she could muster courage to descend, 
Viola was gone! She found the marks of violence 
on the door without; and all she had since been able 
to learn in the neighborhood was, that a Lazzarone, 
from his nocturnal resting-place on the Chiaja, had seen 


222 


ZANONI. 


by the moonlight a carriage, which he recognized as 

belonging to the Prince di , pass and repass that 

road about the first hour of morning. Glyndon, on gath- 
ering from the confused words and broken sobs of the 
old nurse the heads of this account, abruptly left her, 
and repaired to the palace of Zanoni. There he was: 
informed that the signor was gone to the banquet of 

the Prince di , and would not return till late. 

Glyndon stood motionless with perplexity and dismay; 
he knew not what to believe, or how to act. Even 
Mervale was not at hand to advise him. His conscience 
smote him bitterly. He had had the power to save the 
woman he had loved, and had foregone that power; but 
how was it that in this Zanoni himself had failed? 
How was it that he was gone to the very banquet of the 
ravisher ? Could Zanoni be aware of what had passed ? 
If not, should he lose a moment in apprising him? 
Though mentally irresolute, no man was more physically 
brave. He would repair at once to the palace of the 
prince himself; and if Zanoni failed in the trust he 
had half-appeared to arrogate, he, the humble foreigner, 
would demand the captive of fraud and force, in the 
very halls and before the assembled guests of the Prince 
di . 


ZANONI. 


223 


CHAPTEK XVI. 

4 Ardua vallatur duris sapientia scrupis.i 

Hadr. Jun., Emblem, xxxvii. 

We must go back some hours in the progress of this 
narrative. It was the first faint and gradual break of 
the summer dawn; and two men stood in a balcony 
overhanging a garden fragrant with the scents of the 
awakening flowers. The stars had not yet left the sky, 
— the birds were yet silent on the boughs : all was 
still, hushed, and tranquil; but how different the tran- 
quillity of reviving day from the solemn repose of night! 
In the music of silence there are a thousand variations. 
These men, who alone seemed awake in Xaples, were 
Zanoni and the mysterious stranger who had but an 
hour or two ago startled the Prince di in his volup- 

tuous palace. 

“No,” said the latter; “ hadst thou delayed the 
acceptance of the Arch-gift until thou hadst attained 
to the years, and passed through all the desolate bereave- 
ments that chilled and seared myself ere my researches 
had made it mine, thou wouldst have escaped the curse 
of which thou complainest now, — thou wouldst not have 
mourned over the brevity of human affection as com- 
pared to the duration of thine own existence ; for thou 
wouldst have survived the very desire and dream of the 
love of woman. Brightest, and, but for that error, per- 
haps the loftiest, of the secret and solemn race that Alls 
1 Lofty wisdom is circled round with rugged rocks. 


224 


Z AN ONI. 


up the interval in creation between mankind and the 
children of the Empyreal, age after age wilt thou rue 
the splendid folly which made thee ask to carry the 
beauty and the passions of youth into the dreary 
grandeur of earthly immortality.” 

“I do not repent, lior shall I,” answered Zanoni. 
“ The transport and the sorrow, so wildly blended, 
which have at intervals diversified my doom, are better 
than the calm and bloodless tenor of thy solitary way — 
thou, who lovest nothing, hatest nothing, feelest noth- 
ing, and walkest the world with the noiseless and 
joyless footsteps of a dream! ” 

“ You mistake, ” replied he who had owned the name 
of Mejnour, — “ though I care not for love, and am dead 
to every passion that agitates the sons of clay, I am not 
dead to their more serene enjoyments. I carry down 
the stream of the countless years, not the turbulent 
desires of youth, but the calm and spiritual delights of 
age. Wisely and deliberately I abandoned youth for- 
ever when I separated my lot from men. Let us not 
envy or reproach each other. I would have saved this 
Neapolitan, Zanoni (since so it now pleases thee to be 
called), partly because his grandsire was but divided 
by the last airy barrier from our own brotherhood, 
partly because I know that in the man himself lurk 
the elements of ancestral courage and power, which in 
earlier life would have fitted him for one of us. Earth 
holds but few to whom Nature has given the qualities 
that can bear the ordeal. But time and excess, that 
have quickened his grosser senses, have blunted his 
imagination. I relinquish him to his doom.” 

“ And still, then, Mejnour, you cherish the desire to 
revive our order, limited now to ourselves alone, by 
new converts and allies. Surely — surely — thy experi- 


Z AN ONI. 


225 


ence might have taught thee, that scarcely once in a 
thousand years is horn the being who can pass through 
the horrible gates that lead into the worlds without! 
Is not thy path already strewed with thy victims ? Do 
not their ghastly faces of agony and fear — the blood- 
stained suicide, the raving maniac — rise before thee, 
and warn what is yet left to thee of human sympathy 
from thy insane ambition ? ” 

“Nay,” answered Mejnour; “have I not had success 
to counterbalance failure ? And can I forego this lofty 
and august hope, worthy alone of our high condition, — 
the hope to form a mighty and numerous race with a 
force and power sufficient to permit them to acknowl- 
edge to mankind their majestic conquests and dominion, 
to become the true lords of this planet, invaders, 
perchance, of others, masters of the inimical and 
malignant tribes by which at this moment we are sur- 
rounded: a race that may proceed, in their deathless 
destinies, from stage to stage of celestial glory, and 
rank at last amongst the nearest ministrants and agents 
gathered round the Throne of Thrones ? What matter 
a thousand victims for one convert to our band ? And 
you, Zanoni, ” continued Mejnour, after a pause, — “ you, 
even you, should this affection for a mortal beauty that 
you have dared, despite yourself, to cherish, be more 
than a passing fancy; should it, once admitted into 
your inmost nature, partake of its bright and enduring 
essence, — even you may brave all things to raise the 
beloved one into your equal. Nay, interrupt me not. 
Can you see sickness menace her ; danger hover around ; 
years creep on; the eyes grow dim; the beauty fade, 
while the heart, youthful still, clings and fastens round 
your own, — can you see this, and know it is yours 


15 


226 


ZANONI. 


Cease! ” cried Zanoni, fiercely. “ What is all other 
fate as compared to the death of terror ? What, when 
the coldest sage, the most heated enthusiast, the hardiest 
warrior with his nerves of iron, have been found dead 
in their beds, with straining eyeballs and horrent hair, 
at the first step of the Dread Progress, — thinkest thou 
that this weak woman — from whose cheek a sound at 
the window, the screech of the night-owl, the sight of 
a drop of blood on a man’s sword, would start the color 
— could brave one glance of — Away ! the very thought 
of such sights for her makes even myself a coward! ” 

“ When you told her you loved her, — when you 
clasped her to your breast, you renounced all power to 
foresee her future lot, or protect her from harm. Hence- 
forth to her you are human, and human only. How 
know you, then, to what you may be tempted ; how know 
you what her curiosity may learn and her courage brave 1 
But enough of this, — you are bent on your pursuit ? 

“ The fiat has gone forth. ” 

“ And to-morrow ? ” 

“ To-morrow, at this hour, our bark will be bounding 
over yonder ocean, and the weight of ages will have fallen 
from my heart ! I compassionate thee, 0 foolish sage, — 
thou hast given up thj/ youth ! ” 


ZANONI. ' 


227 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Alch. Thou always speakest riddles. Tell me if thou art that 
fountain of which Bernard Lord Trevizan writ 
Merc. I am not that fountain, but I am the water. The fountain 
compasseth me about. 

Sandivogius, New Light of Alchymy. 

The Prince di was not a man whom Naples conld 

suppose to be addicted to superstitious fancies. Still, 
in the South of Italy, there was then, and there still 
lingers a certain spirit of credulity, which may, ever 
and anon, be visible amidst the boldest dogmas of their 
philosophers and sceptics. In his childhood, the prince 
had learned strange tales of the ambition, the genius, 
and the career of his grandsire, — and secretly, perhaps 
influenced by ancestral example, in earlier youth he him- 
self had followed science, not only through her legiti- 
mate course, but her antiquated and erratic windings. 
I have, indeed, been shown in Naples a little volume, 
blazoned with the arms of the Visconti, and ascribed to 
the nobleman I refer to, which treats of alchemy in a 
spirit half-mocking and half-reverential. 

Pleasure soon distracted him from such speculations, 
and his talents, which were unquestionably great, were 
wholly perverted to extravagant intrigues, or to the 
embellishment of a gorgeous ostentation with something 
of classic grace. His immense wealth, his imperious 
pride, his unscrupulous and daring character, made him 
an object of no inconsiderable fear to a feeble and timid 
court; and the ministers of the indolent government 


228 


ZANONI. 


willingly connived at excesses which allured him at least 
from ambition. The strange visit and yet more strange 
departure of Mejnour filled the breast of the Neapoh 
itan with awe and wonder, against which all the haughty 
arrogance and learned scepticism of his maturer manhood 
combated in vain. The apparition of Mejnour served,, 
indeed, to invest Zanoni with a character in which the 
prince had not hitherto regarded him. He felt a 
strange alarm at the rival he had braved, — at the foe 
he had provoked. When, a little before his banquet^ 
he had resumed his self-possession, it was with a fell 
and gloomy resolution that he brooded over the perfidious 
’ schemes he had previously formed. He felt as if the death 
of the mysterious Zanoni were necessary for the preser- 
vation of his own life ; and if at an earlier period of their 
rivalry he had determined on the fate of Zanoni, the 
warnings of Mejnour only served to confirm his resolve. 

“ We will try if his magic can invent an antidote to 
the bane,” said he, half-aloud, and with a stern smile,, 
as he summoned Mascari to his presence. The poison 
which the prince, with his own hands, mixed into the 
wine intended for his guest, was compounded from mate- 
rials, the secret of which had been one of the proudest 
heir-looms of that able and evil race which gave to Italy 
her wisest and guiltiest tyrants. Its operation was quick 
yet not sudden: it produced no pain, — it left on the: 
form no grim convulsion, on the skin no purpling spot,, 
to arouse suspicion; you might have cut and carved 
every membrane and fibre of the corpse, but the sharpest 
eyes of the leech would not have detected the presence 
of the subtle life-queller. For twelve hours the victim 
felt nothing save a joyous and elated exhilaration of the 
blood; a delicious languor followed, the sure forerunner 
of apoplexy. No lancet then could save! Apoplexy 


ZANONI. ' 229 

had run much in the families of the enemies of the 
Visconti ! 

The hour of the feast arrived, — the guests assembled. 
There were the flower of the Neapolitan seignorie^ the 
descendants of the Norman, the Teuton, the Goth; for 
Naples had then a nobility, but derived it from the 
North, which has indeed been the Nutrix Leonum^ — 
the nurse of the lion-hearted chivalry of the world. 

Last of the guests came Zanoni ; and the crowd gave 
way as the dazzling foreigner moved along to the lord of 
the palace. The prince greeted him with a meaning 
smile, to which Zanoni answered by a whisper, “ He 
who plays with loaded dice does not always win.” 

The prince bit his lip, and Zanoni, passing on, 
seemed deep in conversation with tlie fawning Mascari. 

“ Who is the prince’s heir? ” asked the guest. 

“A distant relation on the mother’s side; with his 
Excellency dies the male line.” 

“ Is the heir present at our host’s banquet? ’’ 

“ No; they are not friends.” 

“ No matter; he will be here to-morrow.” 

Mascari stared in surprise ; but the signal for the 
banquet was given, and the guests were marshalled to 
the board. As was the custom then, the feast tool: place 
not long after mid-day. It was a long, oval hall, the 
whole of one side opening by a marble colonnade upon a 
court or garden, in which the eye rested gratefully upon 
cool fountains and statues of whitest marble, half- 
sheltered by orange-trees. Every art that luxury could 
invent to give freshness and coolness to the languid and 
breezeless heat of the day without (a day on which the 
breath of the sirocco was abroad) had been called into 
existence. Artificial currents of air through invisible 
tubes, silken blinds waving to and fro, as if to cheat 


230 


Z AN ONI. 


the senses into the belief of an April wind, and minia- 
ture jets d'eau in each corner of the apartment, gave to 
the Italians the same sense of exhilaration and comfort 
(if I may use the word) which the well-drawn curtains 
and the blazing hearth afford to the children of colder 
climes. 

The conversation was somewhat more lively and intel- 
lectual than is common amongst the languid pleasure- 
hunters of the South; for the prince, himself accom- 
plished, sought his acquaintance not only amongst the 
heaux esprits of his own country, but amongst the gay 
foreigners who adorned and relieved the monotony of 
the ^^’eapolitan circles. There were present two or three 
of the brilliant Frenchmen of the old regime^ who had 
already emigrated from the advancing Revolution; and 
their peculiar turn of thought and wit was well calcu- 
lated for the meridian of a society that made the dolce 
far niente at once its philosophy and its faith. The 
princ^, however, was more silent than usual; and when 
he sought to rouse himself, his spirits were forced and 
exaggerated. To the manners of his host, those Of 
Zanoni afforded a striking contrast. The bearing of this 
singular person was at all times characterized by a calm 
and polished ease, which was attributed by the courtiers 
to the long habit of society. He could scarcely be 
called gay ; yet few persons more tended to animate the 
general spirits of a convivial circle. He seemed, by a 
kind of intuition, to elicit from each companion the 
qualities in which he most excelled; and if occasion- 
ally a certain tone of latent mockery characterized his 
remarks upon the topics on which the conversation fell, 
it appeared to men who took nothing in earnest to be the 
language both of wit and wisdom. To the Frenchmen, 
in particular, there was something startling in his inti* 


ZANONI. 


231 


mate knowledge of the minutest events in their own 
capital and country, and his profound penetration 
(evinced hut in epigrams and sarcasms) into the eminent 
characters who were then playing a part upon the great 
stage of continental intrigue. It was while this conver- 
sation grew animated, and the feast was at its height, 
that Glyndon arrived at the palace. The porter, per- 
ceiving by his dress that he was not one of the invited 
guests, told him that his Excellency was engaged, and 
on no account could he disturbed; and Glyndon then, 
for the first time, became aware hoAV strange and 
embarrassing was the duty he had taken on himself. To 
force an entrance into the banquet-hall of a great and 
powerful noble, surrounded by the rank of Naples, and 
to arraign him for what to his boon-companions would 
appear but an act of gallantry, was an exploit that could 
not fail to be at once ludicrous and impotent. He mused 
a moment, and, slipping a piece of gold into the porter’s 
hand, said that he was commissioned to seek the Signor 
Zanoni upon an errand of life and death, and easily 
won his way across the court, and into the interior 
building. He passed up the broad staircase, and the 
voices and merriment of the revellers smote his ear at a 
distance. At the entrance of the reception-rooms he 
found a p^ge, whom he despatched with a message to 
Zanoni. The page did the errand; and .Zanoni, on 
hearing the whispered name of Glyndon, turned to his 
host. 

“Pardon me, my lord; an English friend of mine, 
the Signor Glyndon (not unknown by name to your 
Excellency) waits without, — the business must indeed 
be urgent on which he has sought me in such an hour. 
You will forgive my momentary absence.” 

'*Nay, signor,” answered the prince, courteously. 


232 


ZANONI. 


but with a sinister smile on his countenance, “ would it 
not he better for your friend to join us ? An English- 
man is welcome everywhere ; and even were he a Dutch- 
man, your friendship would invest his presence with 
attraction. Pray his attendance; we would not spare 
you even for a moment. ” 

Zanoni bowed; the page was despatched with all 
flattering messages to Glyndon, — a seat next to Zanoni 
was placed for him, and the young Englishman entered. 

“ You are most welcome, sir. I trust your business 
to our illustrious guest is of good omen and pleasant 
import. If you bring evil news, defer it, I pray you.” 

Glyndon’s brow was sullen; and he was about to 
startle the guests b}" his reply, when Zanoni, touching 
his arm significantly, whispered in English, “ I know 
why you have sought me. Be silent, and witness what 
ensues. ” 

“ You know then that Viola, whom you boasted you 
had the power to save from danger — ” 

“ Is in this house ! — yes. I know also that Murder 
sits at the right hand of our host. But his fate is now 
separated from hers forever; and the mirror which 
glasses it to my eye is clear through the streams of 
blood. Be still, and learn the fate that awaits the 
wicked ! 

“ My lord,” said Zanoni, speaking aloud, “ the Signor 
Glyndon has indeed brought me tidings not wholly 
unexpected. I am compelled to leave Naples, — an 
additional motive to make the most of the present 
hour. ” 

“ And what, if I may venture to ask, may be the 
cause that brings such affliction on the fair dames of 
Naples ? ” 

“ It is the approaching death of one who honored me 


ZANONI. 


233 


with most loyal friendship,” replied Zanoni, gravely. 
“Let us not speak of it; grief cannot put back the 
dial. As we supply by new flowers those that fade 
in our vases, so it is the secret of worldly wisdom to 
replace by fresh friendships those that fade from our 
path.” 

“True philosophy!” exclaimed the prince. ^ Not 
to admire^' was the Roman’s maxim; ‘ Never to mourriy* 
is mine. There is nothing in life to grieve for, save, 
indeed, Signor Zanoni, when some young beauty, on 
whom we have set our hearts, slips from our grasp. In 
such a moment we have need of all our wisdom, not to 
succumb to despair, and shake hands with death. What 
say you, signor? You smile! Such never could be 
your lot. Pledge me in a sentiment, ‘ Long life to 
the fortunate lover, — a quick release to the baffled 
suitor ’ ? ” 

“I pledge you,” said Zanoni; and, as the fatal wine 
was poured into his glass, he repeated, fixing his eyes on 
the prince, “ I pledge you even in this wine! ” 

He lifted the glass to his lips. The prince seemed 
ghastly pale, while the gaze of his guest bent upon him, 
with an intent and stern brightness, beneath which the 
conscience-stricken host cowered and quailed. Not till 
he had drained his draught, and replaced the glass upon 
the board, did Zanoni turn his eyes from the prince; 
and he then said, “Your wine has been kept too long; 
it has lost its virtues. It might disagree with many, 
but do not fear ; it will not harm me, prince. Signor 
Mascari, you are a judge of the grape; will you favor us 
with your opinion ? ” 

“ Nay,” answered Mascari, with well -affected com- 
posure, “ I like not the wines of Cyprus; they are heat- 
ing. Perhaps Signor Glyndon may not have the same 


234 


ZANONI. 


distaste? The English are said to love their potatic-na 
warm and pungent.” 

“ Do you wish my friend also to taste the wine, 
prince?” said Zanoni. “Recollect, all cannot drink 
it with the same impunity as myself.” 

“No,” said the prince, hastily; “if you do not 
recommend the wine, Heaven forbid that we should 
constrain our guests! My lord duke,” turning to one 
of the Frenchmen, “ yours is the true soil of Bacchus. 
What think you of this cask from Burgundy ? Has it 
borne the journey ? ” 

“Ah,” said Zanoni, “let us change both the wine 
and the theme.” 

With that, Zanoni grew yet more animated and bril- 
liant. Never did wit more sparkling, airy, exhilarating, 
flash from the lips of reveller. His spirits fascinated 
all present — even the prince himself, even Glyndon — • 
with a strange and wild contagion. The former, 
indeed, whom the words and gaze of Zanoni, when he 
drained the poison, had filled with fearful misgivings, 
now hailed in the brilliant eloquence of his wit a certain 
sign of the operation of the bane. The wine circulated 
fast; but none seemed conscious of its effects. One by 
one the rest of the party fell into a charmed and spell- 
bound silence, as Zanoni continued to pour forth sally 
upon sally, tale upon tale. They hung on his words, 
they almost held their breath to listen. Yet, how bitter 
was his mirth; how full of contempt for the triflers. 
present, and for the trifles which made their life! 

Night came on; the room grew dim, and the feast had 
lasted several hours longer than was the customary 
duration of similar entertainments at that day. Still the 
guests stirred not, and still Zanoni continued, with glit- 
tering eye and mocking lip, to lavish his stores of intellect 


ZANONI. 


235 


and anecdote; when - suddenly the moon rose, and shed 
its rays over the flowers and fountains in the court with- 
out, leaving the room itself half in shadow, and half 
tinged by a quiet and ghostly light. 

It was then that Zanoni rose. “Well, gentlemen,’^ 
said he, “ we have not yet wearied our host, I hope ; and 
his garden offers a new temptation to protract our stay. 
Have you no musicians among your train, prince, that 
might regale our ears while we inhale the fragrance of 
your orange-trees ? ” 

“ An excellent thought ! ” said the prince. “ Mascari, 
see to the music.” 

The party rose simultaneously to adjourn to the 
garden; and then, for the first time, the effect of the 
wine they had drunk seemed to make itself felt. 

With flushed cheeks and unsteady -“teps they came 
into the open air, which tended yet more to stimulate 
that glowing fever of the grape. As if to make up for 
the silence with which the guests had hitherto listened 
to Zanoni, every tongue was now loosened, — every man 
talked, no man listened. There was something wild and 
fearful in the contrast between the calm beauty o'f the 
night and scene, and the hubbub and clamor of these 
disorderly roysters. One of the Frenchmen, in especial, 

the young Due de K , a nobleman of the highest 

rank, and of all the quick, vivacious, and irascible tem- 
perament of his countrymen, was particularly noisy and 
excited. And as circumstances, the remembrance of 
which is still preserved among certain circles of Naples, 
rendered it afterwards necessary that the due should 
himself give evidence of what occurred, I will here trans- 
late the short account he drew up, and which was kindly 
submitted to me some few years ago by my accomplished 
and lively friend, II Cavaliere di B 


236 


ZANONI. 


“ I never remember,” writes the d ac, “ to have fell my 
spirits so excited as on that evening ; we were like so many 
boys released from school, jostling each other as we reeled or 
ran down the flight of seven or eight stairs that led from the 
colonnade into the garden, — some laughing, some whooping, 
some scolding, some babbling. The wine had brought out, 
as it were, each man’s inmost character. Some were loud and 
quarrelsome, others sentimental and whining; some, whom 
we had hitherto thought dull, most mirthful; some, whom we 
had ever regarded as discreet and taciturn, most garrulous 
and uproarious. I remember that in the midst of our 
clamorous gayety, my eye fell upon the cavalier Signor 
Zanoni, whose conversation had so enchanted us all ; and 
I felt a certain chill come over me to perceive that he wore 
the same calm and unsympathizing smile upon his counte- 
nance which had characterized it in his singular and curious 
stories of the court of Louis XIV. I felt, indeed, half-inclined 
to seek a quarrel with one whose composure was almost an 
insult to our disorder. Nor was such an effect of this irri- 
tating and mocking tranquillity confined to myself alone. 
Several of the party have told me since, that on looking at 
Zanoni they felt their blood yet more heated, and gayety 
change to resentment. There seemed in his icy smile a very 
charm to wound vanity and provoke rage. It was at this 
moment that the prince came up to me, and, passing his arin 
into mine, led me a little apart from the rest. He had 
certainly indulged in the same excess as ourselves, but it did 
not produce the same eflFect of noisy excitement. There was, 
on the contrary, a certain cold arrogance and supercilious 
scorn in his bearing and language, which, even while affecting 
so much caressing courtesy towards me, roused my self-love 
against him. He seemed as if Zanoni had infected him ; 
and in imitating the manner of his guest, he surpassed the 
original. He rallied me on some court gossip, Avhich had 
honored my name by associating it with a certain beautiful 
and distinguished Sicilian lady, and affected to treat with 
contempt that which, had it been true, I should have regarded 
as a boast. He spoke, indeed, as if he himself had gathered 


2AN0NI. 


237 


all the flowers of Naples, and left us foreigners only the 
gleanings he had scorned. At this my natural and national 
gallantry was piqued, and I retorted by some sarcasms that 1 
should certainly have spared had my blood been cooler. He 
laughed heartily, and left me in a strange fit of resentment 
and anger. Perhaps (I must own the truth) the wine had 
produced in me a wild disposition to take ofience and provoke 
quarrel. As the prince left me, I turned, and saw Zanoni at 
my side. 

“ ‘ The prince is a braggart,’ said he, with the same smile 
that displeased me before. ‘ He would monopolize all fortune 
and all love. Let us take our revenge,’ 

“ ‘ And how ? * 

“ ‘ He has at this moment, in his house, the most enchant- 
jng singer in Naples, — the celebrated Viola Pisani. She 
Is here, it is true, not by her own choice; he carried her 
hither by force, but he will pretend that she adores him. 
Let us insist on his producing this secret treasure, and when 

Bhe enters, the Due de R can have no doubt that his 

flatteries and attentions will charm the lady, and provoke 
all the jealous fears of our host. It would be a fair revenge 
upon his imperious self-conceit.’ 

“ This suggestion delighted me. I hastened to the prince. ’ 
At that instant the musicians had just commenced ; I waved 
my hand, ordered the music to, stop, and, addressing the 
prince, who was standing in the centre of one of the gayest 
groups, complained of his want of hospitality in affording to 
us such poor proficients in, the art, while he reserved for his 
own solace the lute and voice of the first performer in Naples. 

I demanded, half-laughingly, half-seriously, that he should 
produce the Pisani. My demand was received with shouts of 
applause by the rest. We drowned the replies of our host 
with uproar, and would hear no denial. ‘ Gentlemen,’ at last 
said the prince, when he could obtain an audience, ‘ even 
were I to assent to your proposal, I could not induce the 
signora to present herself before an assemblage as riotous as 
they are noble. You have too much chivalry to use compul- 


238 


ZANONI. 


eion with her, though the Due de R forgets himsel? 

sufficiently to administer it to me/ 

“ I was stung by this taunt, however well deserved. 
‘ Prince,’ said I, ‘ I have for the indelicacy of compulsion so 
illustrious an example that I cannot hesitate to pursue the 
path honored by your own footsteps. All Naples knows tha'u 
the Pisani despises at once your gold and your love ; that 
force alone could have brought her under your roof; and 
that you refuse to produce her, because you fear her com- 
plaints, and know enough of the chivalry your vanity sneers 
at to feel assured that the gentlemen of France are not more 
disposed to worship beauty than to defend it from wrong.’ 

“ ‘ You speak well, sir,’ said Zanoni, gravely. ‘ The prince 
dares not produce his prize I * ' 

“ The prince remained speechless for a few moments, as if 
with indignation. At last he broke out into expressions the 
most injurious and insulting against Signor Zanoni and myself. 
Zanoni replied not ; I was more hot and hasty. The guests 
appeared to delight in our dispute. None, except Mascari, 
whom we pushed aside and disdained to hear, strove to con- 
ciliate; some took one side, some another. The issue may be 
well foreseen. Swords were called for and procured. Two 
were offered me by one of the party. I was about to choose 
one, when Zanoni placed in my hand the other, which, from 
its hilt, appeared of antiquated workmanship. At the same 
moment, looking towards the prince, he said, smilingly, ‘ The 
due takes your grandsire’s sword. Prince, you are too brave 
a man for superstition ; you have forgot the forfeit ! ’ Our 
host seemed to me to recoil and turn pale at those words ; 
nevertheless, he returned Zanoni’s smile with a look of 
defiance. The next moment all was broil and disorder. 
There might be some six or eight persons engaged in a strange 
and confused kind of melee, but the prince and myself only 
sought each other. The noise around us, the confusion of 
the guests, the cries of the musicians, the clash of our own 
swords, only served to stimulate our unhappy fury. We 
feared to be interrupted by the attendants, and fought like 
madmen, without skill or method. 1 thrust and parried 


ZANONI. 


239 


mechanically, blind and frantic, as if a demon had entered 
into me, till I saw the prince stretched at my feet, bathed in 
his blood, and Zanoni bending over him, and whispering in his 
ear. That sight cooled us all. The strife ceased ; we gathered, 
in shame, remorse, and horror, round our ill-fated host ; but 
it was too late, — his eyes rolled fearfully in his head. 1 have 
seen many men die, but never one who wore such horror on 
his countenance. At last all was over ! Zanoni rose from the 
corpse, and, taking, with great composure, the sword from niy 
hand, said calmly, ‘Ye are witnesses, gentlemen, that the 
prince brought his fate upon himself. The last of that illus- 
trious house has perished in a brawl.* 

“I saw no more of Zanoni. I hastened to our envoy to 
narrate the event, and abide the issue. I am grateful to the 
Neapolitan government, and to the illustrious heir of the 
unfortunate nobleman, for the lenient and generous, yet just, 
interpretation put upon a misfortune the memory of which 
will afflict me to the last hour of my life. 

(Signed) “ Louis Victor, Due de R.’* 

In the above memorial, the reader will find the most 
exact and minute account yet given of an event which 
created the most lively sensation at Naples in that day. 

Glyndon had taken no part in the affray, neither had 
he participated largely in the excesses of the revel. For 
his exemption from both he was perhaps indebted to the 
whispered exhortations of Zanoni. When the last rose 
from the corpse, and withdrew from that scene of confu- 
sion, Glyndon remarked that in passing the crowd he 
touched Mascari on the shoulder, and said something 
which the Englishman did not overhear. Glyndon 
followed Zanoni into the banquet-room, which, save 
where the moonlight slept on the marble floor, was 
wrapped, in the sad and gloomy shadows of the advancing 
night. 


240 


Z AN ONI. 


“ How could you foretell this fearful event ? He fell 
not by your arm! ” said Glyndon, in a tremulous and 
hollow tone. 

“ The general who calculates on the victory does not 
fight in person, ” answered Zanoni ; “ let the past sleep 
with the dead. Meet me at midnight by the sea-shore, 
half a mile to the left of your hotel. You will know 
the spot by a rude pillar — the only one near — to which 
a broken chain is attached. There and then, if thou 
wouldst learn our lore, thou shalt find the master. Go ; 
I have business here yet. Remember, Viola is still 
in the house of the dead man ! ” 

Here Mascari approached, and Zanoni, turning to the 
Italian, and waving his hand to Glyndon, drew the 
former aside. Glyndon slowly departed. 

“ Mascari, ” said Zanoni, “ your patron is no more ; 
your services will be valueless to his heir, — a sober 
man whom poverty has preserved from vice. Tor your- 
self, thank me that I do not give you up to the 
executioner; recollect the wine of Cyprus. Well, never 
tremble, man; it could not act on me, though it might 
react on others; in that it is a common type of crime. I 
forgive you; and if the wine should kill me, I promise 
you that my ghost shall not haunt so worshipful a 
penitent. Enough of this; conduct me to the chamber 
of Viola Pisani. You have no further need of her. The 
death of the jailer opens the cell of the captive. Be 
quick; I would be gone.” 

Mascari muttered some inaudible words, bowed low, 
and led the way to the chamber in which Viola was 
confined. ^ 


ZANONI. 


241 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


Merc. 

Alch. 


Tell me, therefore, what thou seekest after, and what thou 
wilt have. What dost thou desire to make 1 
The Philosopher’s Stone. 

Sandivogius. 


It wanted several minutes of midnight, and Glyndon 
repaired to the appointed spot. The mysterious empire 
which Zanoni had acquired over him, was still more 
solemnly confirmed by the events of the last few hours; 
the sudden fate of the prince, so deliberately fore- 
shadowed, and yet so seemingly accidental, brought out 
by causes the most commonplace, and yet associated 
with words the most prophetic, impressed him with the 
deepest sentiments of admiration and awe. It was as if 
this dark and wondrous being could convert the most 
ordinary events and the meanest instruments into the 
agencies of his inscrutable will; yet, if so, why have 
permitted the capture of Viola? Why not have pre- 
vented the crime rather than punish the criminal ? And 
did Zanoni really feel love for Viola? Love, and yet 
offer to resign, her to himself, — to a rival whom his arts 
could not have failed to baffle. He no longer reverted to 
the belief that Zanoni or Viola had sought to dupe him 
into marriage. His fear and reverence for the former 
now forbade the notion of so poor an imposture. Did he 
any longer love Viola himself ? Xo ; when that morning 
he had heard of her danger, he had, it is true, returned 
to the sympathies and the fears of affection ; but with the 
death of the prince her image faded again from his heart, 


242 


ZANONI. 


and he felt no jealous pang at the thought that she had 
been saved by Zanoni, — that at that moment she Avas 
perhaps beneath his roof. Whoever has, in the course 
of his life, indulged the absorbing passion of the gamester, 
will remember how all other pursuits and objects vanished 
from his mind; how solely he was wrapped in the one 
wild delusion ; with what a sceptre of magic power the 
despot-demon ruled every feeling and every thought. 
Far more intense than the passion of the gamester was 
the frantic yet sublime desire that mastered the breast of 
Glyndon. He would be the rival of Zanoni, not in 
human and perishable affections, but in preternatural and 
' eternal lore. He would have laid down life with content 
— nay, rapture — as the price of learning those solemn 
secrets which separated the stranger from mankind. 
Enamoured of the goddess of goddesses, he stretched forth 
his arms — the wild Ixion — and embraced a cloud ! 

The night was most lovely and serene, and the waves 
scarcely rippled at his feet as the Englishman glided on 
by the cool and starry beach. At length he arrived at 
the spot, and there, leaning against the broken pillar, he 
beheld a man wrapped in a long mantle, and in an 
attitude of profound repose. He approached, and uttered 
the name of Zanoni. The figure turned, and he saw the 
face of a stranger: a face not stamped by the glorious 
beauty of Zanoni, but equally majestic in its aspect, and 
perhaps still more impressive from the mature age and the 
passionless depth of thought that characterized the 
expanded forehead, and deep-set but piercing eyes. 

“ You seek .Zanoni, ” said the stranger; “he will be 
here anon; but, perhaps, he whom you see before you is 
more connected with your destiny, and more disposed to 
realize your dreams. ” 

“ Hath the earth, then, another Zanoni? ” 


ZANONI. 


243 


**If not,” replied the stranger, “why do you cherish 
the hope and the wild faith to he yourself a Zanoni ? 
Think you that none others have burned with the same 
godlike dream ? Who, indeed, in his first youth, — 
youth when the soul is nearer to the heaven from which 
it sprang, and its divine and primal longings are not all 
effaced . by the sordid passions and petty cares that are 
begot in time, — who is there in youth that has not 
nourished the belief that the universe has secrets not 
known to the common herd, and panted, as the hart for 
the water-springs, for the fountains that lie hid and far 
away amidst the broad wilderness of trackless science ? 
The music of the fountain is heard in the soul within, 
till the steps, deceived and erring, rove away from its 
waters, and the wanderer dies in the mighty desert. 
Think you that none who have cherished the hope have 
found the truth, or that the yearning after the Ineffable 
Knowledge was given to us utterly in vain? No! 
Every desire in human hearts is hut a glimpse of things 
that exist, alike distant and divine. No ! in the world 
there have been from age to age some brighter and 
happier spirits who have attained to the air in which the 
beings above mankind move and breathe. Zanoni, great 
though he he, stands not alone. He has had his pre- 
decessors, and long lines of successors may he yet to 
come. ” 

“ And will you tell me, ” said Glyndon, “ that in 
yourself I behold one of that mighty few over whom 
Zanoni has no superiority in power and wisdom ? ” 

“ In me, ” answered the stranger, “ you see one from 
whom Zanoni himself learned some of his loftiest secrets. 
On these shores, on this spot, have I stood in ages that 
your chroniclers hut feebly reach. The Phoenician, the 
Greek, the Oscan, the Koman, the Lombard, I have seen 


244 


ZANONL 


them all! — leaves gay and glittering on the trunk of the 
universal life, scattered in due season and again renewed ; 
till, indeed, the same race that gave its glory to the 
ancient world bestowed a second youth upon the new. 
For the pure Greeks, the Hellenes, whose origin has 
bewildered your dreaming scholars, were of the same great 
family as the Norman tribe, born to be the lords of the 
universe, and in no land on earth destined to become 
the hewers of wood. Even the dim traditions of the 
learned, which bring the sons of Hellas from the vast 
and undetermined territories of Northern Thrace, to be the 
victors of the pastoral Pelasgi, and the founders of the 
line of demi-gods ; which assign to a population bronzed 
beneath the suns of the West, the blue-eyed Minerva 
and the yellow-haired Achilles (physical characteristics of 
the North) ; which introduce, amongst a pastoral people, 
warlike aristocracies and limited monarchies, the feudal- 
ism of the classic time, — even these might serve you to 
trace back the primeval settlements of the Hellenes to the 
same region whence, in later times, the Norman warriors 
broke on the dull and savage hordes of the Celt, and 
became the Greeks of the Christian world. But this 
interests you not, and you are wise in your indifference. 
Not in the knowledge of things without, but in tho 
perfection of the soul within, lies the empire of man 
aspiring to be more than man. " 

“And what books contain that science; from what 
laboratory is it wrought ? ” 

“ Nature supplies the materials; they are around you 
in your daily walks. In the herbs that the beast 
devours and the chemist disdains to cull; in the ele- 
ments from which matter in its meanest and its might- 
iest shapes is deduced ; in the wide bosom of the air; in 
the black abysses of the earth ; everywhere are given to 


ZANONI. 


245 


mortals the resources and libraries of immortal lore. 
But as the simplest problems in the simplest of all 
studies are obscure to one who braces not his mind to 
their comprehension ; as the rower in yonder vessel can- 
ilot tell you why two circles can touch each other only 
in one point, — so though all earth were carved over and 
inscribed with the letters of diviner knowledge,, the 
characters would be valueless to him who does not pause 
to inquire the language and meditate the truth. Young 
man, if thy imagination is vivid, if thy heart is daring, 
if thy curiosity is insatiate, I will accept thee as my 
pupil. But the first lessons are stern and dread. ” 

“ If thou hast mastered them, why not I ? ” answered 
Glyndon, boldly. “ I have felt from my boyhood that 
strange mysteries were reserved for my career; and from 
the proudest ends of ordinary ambition I have carried 
my gaze into the cloud and darkness that stretch beyond. 
The instant I beheld Zanoni, I felt as if I had discov- 
ered the guide and the tutor for which my youth had 
idly languished and vainly burned.” 

“ And to me his duty is transferred ,” replied the 
stranger. “Yonder lies, anchored in the bay, the 
vessel in which Zanoni seeks a fairer home; a little 
while and the breeze will rise, the sail will swell, and 
the stranger will have passed, like a wind, away. 
Still, like the wind, he leaves in thy heart the seeds 
that may bear the blossom and the fruit. Zanoni hath 
performed his task , — he is wanted no more ; the per • 
fecter of his work is at thy side. He comes! I hear 
the dash of the oar. You will have your choice sub- 
mitted to you. According as you decide we shall meet 
again.” With these words the stranger moved slowly 
away, and disappeared beneath the shadow of the cliffs. 
A boat glided rapidly across the waters: it touched 


246 


ZANONI. 


land; a man leaped on shore, and Glyndon recognizea 
Zanoni. 

. “ I give thee, Glyndon, — I give thee no more the 
option of happy love and serene enjoyment. That 
hour is past, and fate has linked the hand that might 
have been thine own to mine. But I hav,e ample gifts 
to bestow upon thee, if thou wilt abandon the hope that 
gnaws, thy heart, and the realization of which even I 
have not the power to foresee. Be thine ambition 
human, and I can gratify it to the full. Men desire 
four things in life, — love, wealth, fame, power. The 
first I cannot give thee, the rest are at my disposal. 
Select which of them , thou wilt, and let us part in 
peace.” 

“ Such are not the gifts I covet. I choose knowledge ; 
that knowledge must be thine own. For this, and for 
this alone, I surrendered the love of Viola; this, and 
this alone, must be my recompense.” 

“ I cannot gainsay thee, though I can warn. The 
desire to learn does, not always contain the faculty to 
acquire. I can give thee, it is true, the teacher, — the 
rest must depend on thee. Be wise in time, and take 
that which I can assure to thee. ” 

“ Answer me but these* questions, and according to 
your answer I will decide. Is it in the power of man 
to attain intercourse with the beings of other worlds ? 
Is it in the power of man to influence the elements, and 
to insure life against the sword and against disease ? ” 

“All this may be possible,” answered Zanoni, eva- 
sively, “to the few; but for one who attains such 
.secrets, millions may perish in the attempt.” 

' “ One question more. Thou — ” 

“Beware! Of myself, as I have said before, I render 
no account.” 


ZANONI. 


247 


“Well, then, the stranger I have met this night, — 
are his boasts to be believed? Is he in truth one of 
the chosen seers whom you allow to have mastered the 
mysteries I yearn to fathom ? ” 

“ Rash man,” said Zanoni, in a tone of compassion, 
‘‘thy crisis is past, and thy choice made! I can only 
bid thee be bold and prosper; yes, I resign thee to a 
master who has the power and the will to open to thee 
the gates of an awful world. Thy weal or woe are 
as nought in the eyes of his relentless wisdom. I 
would bid him spare thee, but he will heed me not. 
Mejnour, receive thy pupil! ” Glyndon turned, and his 
heart beat when he perceived that the stranger, whose 
footsteps he had not heard upon the pebbles, whose 
approach he had not beheld in the moonlight, was once 
more by his side. 

“ Farewell,” resumed Zanoni; “thy trial commences. 
When next we meet, thou wilt be the victim or the 
victor. ” 

Glyndon’s eyes followed the receding form of the 
mysterious stranger. He saw him enter the boat, and 
he then for the first time noticed that besides the rowers 
there was a female, who stood up as Zanoni gained the 
boat. Even at the distance he recognized the once- 
adored form of Viola. She waved her hand to him, and 
across the still and shining air came her voice, mourn- 
fully and sweetly, in her mother’s tongue, “Farewell, 
Clarence, — I forgive thee! — farewell, farewell! ” 

He strove to answer; but the voice touched a chord 
at his heart, and the Avords failed him. Viola was then 
lost forever, gone with this dread stranger; darkness 
was round her lot! And he himself had decided her 
fate and his oAvn! The boat bounded on, the soft Avaves 
flashed and sparkled beneath the oars, and it Avas along 


248 


ZANONI. 


one sapphire track of moonlight that the frail vessel 
bore away the lovers. Farther and farther from his 
gaze sped the boat, till at last the speck, scarcely visible, 
touched the side of the ship that lay lifeless in the 
glorious bay. At that instant, as if by magic, up 
sprang, with a glad murmur, the playful and freshening 
wind: and Glyndon turned to Mejnour and broke the 
silence. 

“ Tell me — if thou canst read the future — tell me 
that her lot will be fair, and that her choice at least is 
wise ? ” 

“ My pupil! ” answered Mejnour, in a voice the calm- 
ness of which well accorded with the chilling words, 
“ thy first task must be to withdraw all thought, feeling, 
sympathy from others. The elementary stage of knowl- 
edge is to make self, and self alone, thy study and thy 
world. Thou hast decided thine own career; thou hast 
renounced love; thou hast rejected wealth, fame, and 
the vulgar pomps of power. What, then, are all man- 
kind to thee? To perfect thy faculties, and concentrate 
thy emotions, is henceforth thy only aim! ” 

“ And will happiness be the end ? " 

“ If happiness exist,” answered Mejnour, “ it must 
be centred in a self to which all passion is unknown. 
But happiness is the last state of being; and as yet thou 
art on the threshold of the first. ” 

As Mejnour spoke, the distant vessel, spread its sails 
to the wind, and moved slowly along the deep. Glyn- 
don sighed, and the pupil and the master retraced their 
steps towards the city. 


BOOK IV. 


THE DWELLER OF THE THRESHOLD. 


CHAPTEH I. 

Come vittima io vengo all’ ara.^ 

Metast., At. ii. Sc. 7. 

It was about a month after the date of Zanoni’s 
departure and Glyndon’s introduction to Mejnour, when 
two Englishmen were walking, arm-in-arm, through the 
Toledo. 

“I tell you,” said one (who spoke warmly), “that 
if you have a particle of common-sense left in you, you 
will accompany me to England. This Mejnour is an 
impostor more dangerous, because more in earnest, than 
Zanoni. After all, what do his promises amount to? 
You allow that nothing can be more equivocal. Y^ou 
say that he has left Naples, — that he has selected a 
retreat more congenial than the crowded thorough- 
fares of men to the studies in which he is to initiate 
you; and this retreat is among the haunts of the 
fiercest bandits of Italy, — haunts which justice itself 
dares not penetrate. Pitting hermitage for a sage! I 
tremble for you. What if this stranger — ■ of whom 
nothing is known — be leagued with the robbers ; and 
these lures for your credulity bait but the traps foi 

1 As a victim I go to the altar. 


250 


ZANONI. 


your property, — perhaps your life? You might come 
off cheaply by a ransom of half your fortune. You 
smile indignantly! Well, put common-sense out of 
the question; take your own view of the matter. You 
are to undergo an ordeal which Mejnour himself does 
not profess to describe as a very tempting one. It 
may, or it may not, succeed: if it does not, you are 
menaced with the darkest evils; and if it does, you 
cannot he better off than the dull and joyless mystic 
whom you have taken for a master. Away with this 
folly; enjoy youth while it is left to you; return with 
me to England; forget these dreams; enter your proper 
career; form affections more respectable than those 
which lured you awhile to an Italian adventuress. 
Attend to your fortune, make money, and become a 
happy and distinguished man. This is the advice of 
sober friendship ; yet the promises I hold out to you are 
fairer than those of Mejnour.” 

“Mervale,” said Glyndon, doggedly, “I cannot, if I 
would, yield to your wishes. A power that is above 
me urges me on; I cannot resist its influence. I will 
proceed to the last in the strange career I have com- 
menced, Think of me no more. Follow yourself the 
advice you give to me, and be happy.” 

"This is madness,” said Mervale; “your health is 
already failing; you are so changed I should scarcely 
know you. Come ; I have already had your name 
entered in my passport; in another hour I shall be gone, 
and you, boy that you are, will be left, without a friend, 
to the deceits of your own fancy and the machinations 
of this relentless mountebank.” 

“ Enough,” said Glyndon, coldly; “you cease to be 
an effective counsellor when you suffer your prejudices 
to be thus evident. I have already had ample proof,” 


ZANONI. 


251 


added the Englishman, and his pale cheek grew more 
pale, '' of the power of this man, — • if man he he, which 
I sometimes doubt, — and, come life, come death, I will 
tiot shrink from the paths that allure me. Farewell, 
Mervale ; if we never meet again, — if you hear, amidst 
our old and cheerful haunts, that Clarence Glyndon 
sleeps the last sleep by the shores of Kaples, or amidst 
yon distant hills, say to the friends of our youth, ‘ He 
died worthily, as thousands of martyr-students have died 
before him, in the pursuit of knowledge.’ ” 

He wrung Mervale’s hand as he spoke, darted from 
his side, and disappeared amidst the crowd. 

By the corner of the Toledo he was arrested by Nicot. 

“Ah, Glyndon! I have not seen you this month. 
.Where have you hid yourself 1 Have you been absorbed 
in your studies ? ” 

, “Yes.” 

“ I am about to Ifeave Naples for Paris. AVill you 
.accompany me 1 Talent of all order is eagerly sought 
for there, and will he sure to rise.” 

“ I thank you; I have other schemes for the present.” 

“So laconic! — what ails you? Do you grieve for 
,the loss of the Pisani ? Take example by me. 1 have 
already consoled myself with Bianca Sacchini, — a hand- 
some woman, enlightened, no prejudices. A valuable 
creature I shall find her, no doubt, But as for this 
Zanoni ! ” 

; « What of him ? ” 

“ If ever I paint an allegorical subject, I will take 
his likeness as Satan. Ha, ha! a true painter’s 
revenge, — eh? And the way of the world, too! 
When we can do nothing else against a man whom we 
hate, we can at least paint his effigies as the Devil’s. 
Seriously, though: I abhor that man.” 


252 


ZANONI. 


** Wherefore ? ” 

“ Wherefore ! Has he not carried off the wife and 
the dowry I had marked for myself! Yet, after all,” 
added Nicot, musingly, “had he served instead of 
injured me, I should have hated him all the same. His 
very form, and his very face, made me at once envy and 
detest him. I feel that there is something antipathetic 
in our natures. I feel, too, that we shall meet again, 
when Jean Nicot^s hate may he less impotent. We, 
too, cher confrere^ — we, too, may meet again! Vive 
la Bepuhlique I I to my new world! ” 

“ And I to mine. Farewell! ” 

That day Mervale left Haples; the next morning 
Glyndon also quitted the City of Delight alone, and on 
horseback. He bent his way into those picturesque hut 
dangerous parts of the country which at that time were 
infested by banditti, and which few travellers dared to 
pass, even in broad daylight, without a strong escort. 
A road more lonely cannot well be conceived than that 
on which the hoofs of his steed, striking upon the frag- 
ments of rock that encumbered the neglected way, woke 
a dull and melancholy echo. Large tracts of waste land, 
varied by the rank and profuse foliage of the South, 
lay before him; occasionally a wild goat peeped down 
from some rocky crag, or the discordant cry of a bird of 
prey, startled in its sombre haunt, was heard above the 
hills. These were the only signs of life ; not a human 
being was met, — not a hut was visible. Wrapped in 
his own ardent and solemn thoughts, the young man 
continued his way, till the sun had spent its noonday 
heat, and a breeze that announced the approach of eve 
sprung up from the unseen ocean which lay far distant 
to his right. It was then that a turn in the road 
brought before him one of those long, desolate, gloomy 


ZANONI. 


253 


villages which are found in the interior of the Neapol- 
itan dominions: and now he came upon a small chapel 
on one side the road, with a gaudily painted image of 
the Virgin in the open shrine. Around this spot, 
which, in the heart of a Christian land, retained the 
vestige of the old idolatry (for just such were the 
chapels that in the pagan age were dedicated to the 
demon-saints of mythology), gathered six or seven 
miserable and squalid wretches, whom the curse of the 
leper had cut off from mankind. They set up a shrill 
cry as they turned their ghastly visages towards the 
horseman; and, without stirring from the spot, stretched 
out their gaunt arms, and implored charity in the name 
of the Merciful Mother! Glyndon hastily threw them 
some small coins, and, turning away his face, clapped 
spurs to his horse, and relaxed not his speed till he 
entered the village. On either side the narrow and 
miry street, fierce and haggard forms — some leaning 
against the ruined walls of blackened huts, some seated 
at the threshold, some lying at full length in the mud 
— presented groups that at once invoked pity and 
aroused alarm: pity for thcir squalor, alarm for the 
ferocity imprinted on their savage aspects. They gazed 
at him, grim and sullen, as he rode slowly up the rugged 
street; sometimes whispering significantly to each other, 
hut without attempting to stop his way. Even the chil- 
dren hushed their babble, and ragged urchins, devouring 
him with sparkling eyes, muttered to their mothers, 
“ We shall feast well to-morrow! ” It was, indeed, one 
of those hamlets in which Law sets not its sober step, 
in which Violence and Murder house secure, — hamlets 
common then in the wilder parts of Italy, in which the 
peasant was but the gentler name for the robber. 

Glyndon’s heart somewhat failed him as he looked 


254 


ZANONI. 


around, and the question he desired to ask died upon 
his lips. At length from one of the dismal cabins 
emerged a form superior to the rest. Instead of the 
patched and ragged over-all, which made the only gar- 
ment of the men he had hitherto seen, the dress of this 
person was characterized by all the trappings of the 
national bravery. Upon his raven hair, the glossy curls, 
of which made a notable contrast to the matted and 
elfin locks of the savages around, was placed a cloth cap, 
with a gold tassel that hung down to his shoulder; his 
mustaches were trimmed with care, and a silk kerchief 
of gay hues was twisted round a well -shaped but sinewy 
throat; a short jacket of rough cloth was decorated with 
several rows of gilt filagree buttons ; his nether garments 
fitted tight to his limbs, and were curiously braided ;‘ 
while in a broad parti-colored sash were placed two^ 
silver-hilted pistols, and the sheathed knife, usually 
worn by Italians of the lower order, mounted in ivory 
elaborately carved. A small carbine of handsome work- 
manship was slung across his shoulder and completed' 
his costume. The man himself was of middle size,” 
athletic yet slender, with straight and regular features, 
sunburnt, but not swarthy; and an expression of coun- 
tenance which, though reckless and bold, had in it 
frankness rather than ferocity, and, if defying, was not 
altogether unprepossessing. 

Glyndon, after eying this figure for some moments 
with great attention, checked his rein, and asked the 
way to the “ Castle of the Mountain.” 

The man lifted his cap as he heard the question, and,, 
approaching Glyndon, laid his hand upon the neck of 
the horse, and said, in a low voice, “ Then you are the 
cavalier whom our patron the signor expected. He 
bade me wait for you here, and lead you to the castle. 


ZANONI. 255 

And indeed, signor, it might have been unfortunate if 
I had neglected to obey the command.” 

The man then, drawing a little aside, called out to 
the bystanders in a loud voice, “ Ho, ho! my friends, 
pay henceforth and forever all respect to this 'worshipful 
cavalier. He is the expected guest of our blessed patron 
of the Castle of the Mountain. Long life to him ! May, 
he, like his host, be safe by day and by night; on the 
hill and in the waste; against the dagger and the bullet, 

— in limb and in life! Cursed be he who touches a 
hair of his head, or a baioccho in his pouch. Now and 
forever we will protect and honor him, — for the law or 
against the law; with the faith and to the death. 
Amen! Amen! ” 

“Amen!” responded, in wild chorus, a hundred 
voices; and the scattered and straggling groups pressed 
up the street, nearer and nearer to the horseman. 

“And that he may be known,” continued the Eng- 
lishman’s strange protector, “ to the eye and to the ear, 
I place around him the white sash, and I give him the 
sacred watchword, ^ Peace to the Brave.'’ Signor, when 
you wear this sash , the proudest in these parts will bare 
the head and bend the knee. Signor, when you utter 
this watchword, the bravest hearts will be bound to 
your bidding. Desire you safety, or ask you revenge, 

— to gain a beauty, or to lose a foe, — speak but the 
word, and we are yours: we are yours! Is it not so, 
comrades'? ” 

And again the hoarse voices shouted, “ Amen, Amen! ” 

“ Now, signor,” whispered the bravo, “ if you have a 
few coins to spare, scatter them amongst the crowd, and 
let us be gone.” 

Glyndon, not displeased at the concluding sentence, 
emptied his purse in the streets ; and while, with min* 


256 


ZANONI. 


gled oaths, blessings, shrieks, and yells, men, women, 
and children scrambled for the money, the bravo, taking 
the rein of the horse, led it a few paces through the 
village at a brisk trot, and then, turning up a narrow 
lane to the left, in a few minutes neither houses nor 
men were visible, and the mountains closed their path 
on either side. It was then that, releasing the bridle 
and slackening his pace, the guide turned his dark eyes 
on Glyndon with an arch expression, and said, — 

“ Your Excellency was not, perhaps, prepared for the 
hearty welcome we have given you.” 

“ Why, in truth, I ought to have been prepared for it, 
since the signor, to whose house I am bound, did not 
disguise from me the character of the neighborhood. 
And your name, my friend, if I may so call you? ” 

“ Oh, no ceremonies with me. Excellency. In the 
village I am generally called Maestro Paolo. I had a 
surname once, though a very equivocal one; and I have 
forgotten that since I retired from the world. ” 

“ And was it from disgust, from poverty, or from 
some — some ebullition of passion which entailed pun- 
ishment, that you betook yourself to the mountains ? ” 
“Why, signor,” said the bravo, with a gay laugh, 
“ hermits of my class seldom love the confessional. 
However, I have no secrets while my step is in these 
defiles, my whistle in my pouch, and my carbine at my 
back.” With that the robber, as if he loved permission 
to talk at his will, hemmed thrice, and began with 
much humor; though, as his tale proceeded, the memo- 
ries it roused seemed to carry him farther than he at first 
intended, and reckless and light-hearted ease gave way 
to that fierce and varied play of countenance and passion 
of gesture which characterize the emotions of his 
countrymen. 


ZANONI. 


257 


“ I was born at Terracina, — a fair spot, is it not ? My 
father was a learned monk of high birth; my mother 
• — Heaven rest her! — an innkeeper’s pretty daughter. 
Of course there could be no marriage in the case ; and 
when I was born, the monk gravely declared my appear- 
ance to be miraculous. T was dedicated from my cradle 
to the altar; and my head was universally declared to 
be the orthodox shape for a cowl. As I grew up, the 
monk took great pains with my education ; and I learned 
Latin and psalmody as soon as less miraculous infants 
learn crowing. jSTor did the holy man’s care stint 
itself to my interior accomplishments. Although 
vowed to poverty, he always contrived that my mother 
should have her pockets full ; and between her pockets 
and mine there was soon established a clandestine com- 
munication; accordingly, at fourteen, I wore my cap 
on one side, stuck pistols in my belt, and assumed the 
swagger of a cavalier and a gallant. At that age my 
poor mother died; and about the same period my father, 
having written a History of the Pontifical Bulls, in 
forty volumes, and being, as I said, of high birth, 
obtained a cardinal’s hat. From that time he thought 
fit to disown your humble servant. He bound me over 
to an honest notary at Naples, and gave me two hundred 
crowns by way of provision. Well, signor, I saw enough 
of the law to convince me that I should never be rogue 
enough to shine in the profession. So, instead of 
spoiling parchment, I made love to the notary’s daugh- 
ter. My master discovered our innocent amusement, 
and turned me out of doors; that was disagreeable. But 
my Ninetta loved me, , and took care that I should not 
lie out in the streets with the Lazzaroni. Little jade! 
I think I see her now with her bare feet, and her finger 
to her lips, opening the door in the summer nights, and 

17 


258 


. ZANONI. 


bidding me creep softly into the kitchen, where, praised 
be the saints! a flask and a manchet always awaited the 
hungry amoroso. At last, however, Ninetta grew 
cold. It is the way of the sex, signor. Her father, 
found her an excellent marriage in the person of a with- 
ered old picture-dealer. She took the spouse, and 
very properly clapped the door in the face of the lover. 
I was not disheartened, Excellency; no, not I. Women 
are plentiful while we are young. So, without a ducat 
in my pocket or a crust for my teeth, I set out to seek 
my fortune on board of a Spanish merchantman. That 
was duller work than I expected ; but luckily we were 
attacked by a pirate, — half the crew were butchered, 
the rest captured. I was one of the last: always in 
luck, you see, signor, — monks’ sons have a knack that 
way! The captain of the pirates took a fancy to me. 
‘Serve with us?’ said he. ‘Too happy,’ said I. 
Behold me, then, a pirate! O jolly life! how I blessed 
the old notary for turning me out of doors! What feast- 
ing, what fighting, what wooing, what quarrelling! 
Sometimes we ran ashore and enjoyed ourselves like 
princes; sometimes we lay in a calm for days together 
on the loveliest sea that man ever traversed. And then, 
if the breeze rose and a sail came in sight, who so merry 
as we ? I passed three years in that charming profes- 
sion, and then, signor, I grew ambitious. I caballed 
against the captain; I wanted his post. One still 
night we struck the blow. The ship was like a log 
in the sea, no land to be seen from the mast-head, the 
waves like glass, and the moon at its full. Up we 
rose, thirty of us and more. Up we rose with a shout ; 
we poured into the captain’s cabin, I at the head. The 
brave old boy had caught the alarm, and there he stood 
at the doorway, a pistol in each hand; and his one 


ZANONI. 


259 


eye (he had only one) worse to meet than the pistols 
were. 

. ‘Yield! ’ cried I; ‘ your life shall he safe.’ 

■ “ ‘Take that,’ said he, and whiz went the pistol; hut 

the saints took care of their own, and the hall passed by 
my cheek, and shot the boatswain behind me. 1 closed 
with the captain, and the other pistol went off without 
mischief in the struggle. Such a fellow he was, — six 
feet four without his shoes ! Over we went, rolling each 
on the other. Santa Maria! no time to get hold of one’s 
knife. Meanwhile all the crew were up, some for the 
captain, some for me, — clashing and firing, and swear- 
ing and groaning, and now and then a heavy splash in 
the sea. Fine supper for the sharks that night! At 
last old Bilboa got uppermost; out flashed his knife; 
down it came, but not in my heart. *No! I gave my 
left arm as a shield; and the blade went through to the 
hilt, with the blood spurting up like the rain from a 
whale’s nostril! With the weight of the blow the stout 
fellow came down so that his face touched mine; with 
my right hand I caught him by the throat, turned him 
over like a lamb, signor, and faith it was soon all up 
with him : the hoatsw^ain’s brother, a fat Dutchman, ran 
him through with a pike. 

“ ‘ Old fellow, ’ said I, as he turned his terrible eye to 
me, ‘ I bear you no malice , but we must try to get on in 
the world, you know.’ The captain grinned and gave 
up the ghost. I went upon deck, — what a sight! 
Twenty bold fellows stark and cold, and the moon 
sparkling on the puddles of blood as calmly as if it were 
water. Well, signor, the victory was ours, and the ship 
mine; I ruled merrily enough for six months. We then 
attacked a French ship twice our size ; what sport it was ! 
And we had not had a good fight so long, we were quite 


260 


ZANONL 


like virgins at it! We got the best of it, and won ship 
and cargo. They wanted to pistol the captain , but that 
was against my laws: so we gagged him, for he scolded 
as loud as if we were married to him ; left him and the 
rest of his crew on hoard our own vessel, which was. 
terribly battered; clapped our black flag on the French- 
man’s, and set off merrily, with a brisk wind in our 
favor. But luck deserted us on forsaking our own dear 
old ship. A storm . came on, a plank struck ; several of 
us escaped in a boat ; we had lots of gold with us, hut no 
water. For two days and two nights we suffered horri- 
bly; hut at last we ran ashore near a French seaport. 
Our sorry plight moved compassion, and as we had. 
money, we were not suspected, — people only suspect 
the poor. Here we soon recovered our fatigues, rigged 
ourselves out gaVly, and your humble servant was con- 
sidered as noble a captain as ever walked deck. But 
now, alas! my fate would have it that I should fall in 
love with a silk-mercer’s daughter. Ah, how I loved 
her! — the pretty Clara! Yes, I loved her so well that. 
I was seized with horror at my past life ! I resolved to 
repent, to marry her, and settle down into an honest 
man. Accordingly, I summoned my messmates, told 
them my resolution, resigned my command, and per- 
suaded them to depart. They were good fellows, engaged 
with a Dutchman, against whom I heard afterwards they 
made a successful mutiny, hut I never saw them more. 
I had two thousand crowns still left; with this sum I 
obtained the consent of the silk-mercer, and it was agreed 
that I should become a partner in the firm. I need not. 
say that no one suspected that I had been so great a man, 
and I passed for a Neapolitan goldsmith’s son instead 
of a cardinal’s. I was very happy then, signor, very, 
— I could not have harmed a fly ! Had I married 


ZANONI. 


261 


Clara, I had been as gentle a mercer as ever handled a 
measure. ” 

The bravo paused a moment, and it was easy to see 
that he felt more than his words and tone betokened. 
“ Well, well, we must not look back at the past too 
earnestly, — the sunlight upon it makes one’s eyes 
water. The day was fixed for our wedding, — it 
approached. On the evening before the appointed day, 
Clara, her mother, her little sister, and myself, were 
walking by the port ; and as we looked on the sea, I 
was telling them old gossip -tales of mermaids and sea- 
serpents, when a red-faced, bottle-nosed Frenchman 
clapped himself right before me, and, placing his spec- 
tacles very deliberately astride his proboscis, echoed out, 
‘ Sacre^ mille tonnerres ! this is the damned pirate who 
boarded the “ Niobe ” ! * 

“‘None of your jests,’ said I, mildly. ‘Ho, ho!’ 
said he ; ‘I can’t be mistaken ; help there I ’ and he 
griped me by the collar. I replied, as you may suppose, 
by laying him in the kennel; but it would not do. 
The French captain had a French lieutenant at his 
back, whose memory was as good as his chief’s. A 
crowd assembled; other sailors came up: the odds were 
against me. I slept that night in prison ; and in a few 
weeks afterwards I was sent to the galleys. They 
spared my life, because the old Frenchman politely 
averred that I had made my crew spare his. You may 
believe that the oar and the chain were not to my taste. 
I and two others escaped; they took to the road, and 
have, no doubt, been long since broken on the wheel. 
I, soft soul, would not commit another crime to gain 
my breadj for Clara was still at my heart with her sweet 
eyes; so, limiting my rogueries to the theft of a beggar’s 
rags, which I compensated by leaving him my galley 


262 


ZANONI. 


attire instead, I begged 'my way to the town where 
left Clara. It was a clear winter’s day when I 
approached the outskirts of the town. I had no fear 
of detection, for my beard and hair were as good as a 
mask. Oh, Mother of Mercy! there came across my 
way a funeral procession! There, now you know it; 
I can tell you no more. She had died, perhaps of love, 
more likely of shame. Can you guess how I spent that' 
night ? — I stole a pickaxe from a mason’s shed, and all 
alone and unseen, under the frosty heavens, I dug the 
fresh mould from the grave; I lifted the coffin, I 
wrenched the lid, I saw her again — again ! Decay had 
not touched her. She was always pale in life! I could 
have sworn she lived! It was a blessed thing to see her 
once more, and all alone too! But then, at dawn, to give 
her back to the earth, — to close the lid, to throw down the 
mould, to hear the pebbles rattle on the coffin; that was 
dreadful! Signor, I never knew before, and I don’t 
wish to think now, how valuable a thing human life is. 
At sunrise I was again a wanderer ; but now that Clara was 
gone, my scruples vanished, and again I was at war 

with my betters. I contrived at last, at 0 , to get 

taken on board a vessel bound to Leghorn, working out 
my passage. Brom Leghorn I went to Borne, and 
stationed myself at the door of the cardinal’s palace. 
Out he came, his gilded coach at the gate. 

“ ‘Ho, father! ’ said I; ‘ don’t you know me? ’ 

“ ‘ Who are you V 
‘ Your son,’ said I, in a whisper. 

“ The cardinal drew back, looked at me earnestly, and 
mused a moment. ‘All men are my sons,’ quoth he 
then, very mildly; ‘there is gold for thee! To him who 
begs once, alms are due; to him who begs twice, jails 
are open. Take the hint and molest me no more.. 


ZANONI. 


263 


Heaven bless thee!’ With that he got ioto his coach, 
and drove off to the Vatican. His purse which he had 
left behind was well supplied. I was grateful and con- 
tented, and took my way to Terracina. I had not long 
passed the marshes when I saw two horsemen approach 
at a canter. 

“ ‘You look poor, friend,’ said one of them, halting^ 
‘ yet you are strong. ’ 

“ ‘ Poor men and strong are both serviceable and dan- 
gerous, Signor Cavalier.’ 

“ ‘Well said; follow us.’ 

“ I obeyed, and became a bandit. I rose by degrees ; 
and as I have always been mild in my calling, and have 
taken purses without cutting throats, I bear an excellent 
character, and can eat my macaroni at Naples without 
any danger to life and limb. Por the last two years I 
have settled in these parts, where I hold sway, and 
where I have purchased land. I am called a farmer, 
signor; and I myself now only rob for amusement, 
and to keep my hand in. I trust I have satisfied 
your curiosity. We are within a hundred yards of the 
castle. ” 

“ And how, ” asked the Englishman, whose interest 
had been much excited by his companion’s narrative, — 
“ and how came you acquainted with my host ? — and 
by what means has he so well conciliated the goodwill 
of yourself and friends ? ” 

Maestro Paolo turned his black eyes very gravely 
towards his questioner. “ Why, signor, ” said he , “ you 
must surely know more of the foreign cavalier with the 
hard name than I do. All I can say is, that about a 
fortnight ago I chanced to be standing by a booth in 
the Toledo at Naples, when a sober-looking gentleman 
touched me by the arm, and said, ‘ Maestro Paolo, I 


264 


ZANONI. 


want to make your acquaintance; do me the favor to 
come into yonder tavern, and drink a flask of Idcrima' 
‘ Willingly, ^ said I. So we entered the tavern. When 
we were seated, my new acquaintance thus accosted me : 

‘ The Count d’O has offered to let me hire his old 

castle near B . You know the spot ? ’ 

“ ‘ Extremely well ; no one has inhabited it for a cen- 
tury at least ; it is half in ruins, signor. A queer place 
to hire; I hope the rent is not heavy.’ 

“ ‘ Maestro Paolo, ’ said he, ‘ I am a philosopher, and 
don’t care for luxuries. I want a quiet retreat for some 
scientific experiments. The castle will suit me very 
well, provided you will accept me as a neighbor, and 
place me and my friends under your special protection. 
I am rich ; but I shall take nothing to the castle worth 
robbing. I will pay one rent to the count, and another 
to you. ’ 

“ With that we soon came to terms ; and as the strange 
signor doubled the sum I myself proposed, he is in high 
favor with all his neighbors. We would guard the 
whole castle against an army. And now, signor, that I 
have been thus frank, be frank with me. Who is this 
singular cavalier 1 ” 

“ Who ? — he. himself told you, a philosopher. ” 

“Hem! searching for the Philosopher’s Stone, — eh> 
a bit of a magician; afraid of the priests ? ” 

“ Precisely ; you have hit it. ” 

“ I thought so ; and you are his pupil ? ” 

“lam.” 

“ I wish you well through it, ” said the robber, seri- 
ously, and crossing himself with much devotion; “ I am 
not much better than other people, but one’s soul is one’s 
soul. I do not mind a little honest robbery, or knock- 
ing a man on the head if need be, — but to make a 


ZANONI. 265 

bargain with the devil ! Ah, take care, young gentle- 
man, take care ! ” 

“You need not fear,” said Glyndon, smiling; “my 
preceptor is too wise and too good for such a compact. 
But here we are, I suppose. A noble ruin, — a glorious 
prospect! ” 

Glyndon paused delightedly, and surveyed the scene 
before and below with the eye of a painter. Insensibly, 
while listening to the bandit, he had wound up a con- 
siderable ascent, and now he was upon a broad ledge of 
rock covered with mosses and dwarf shrubs. Between 
this eminence and another of equal height, upon which 
the castle was built, there was a deep but narrow fissure, 
overgrown with the most profuse foliage, so that the eye 
could not penetrate many yards below the rugged surface 
of the abyss; but the profoundness might be well con- 
jectured by the hoarse, low, monotonous roar of waters 
unseen that rolled below, and the subsequent course of 
which was visible at a distance in a perturbed and rapid 
stream that intersected the waste and desolate valleys. 
To the left, the prospect seemed almost boundless, — the 
extreme clearness of the purple air serving to render 
distinct the features of a range of country that a con- 
queror of old might have deemed in itself a kingdom. 
Lonely and desolate as the road which Glyndon had 
passed that day had appeared, the landscape now seemed 
studded with castles, spires, and villages. Afar off, 
Naples gleamed whitely in the last rays of the sun, and 
the rose-tints of the horizon melted into the azure of her 
glorious bay. Yet more remote, and in another part of 
the prospect, might be caught, dim and shadowy, and 
backed by the darkest foliage, the ruined pillars of the 
ancient Posidonia. There, in the midst of his blackened 
and sterile realms, rose the dismal Mount of Pire ; while 


266 


ZANONI. 


on tli6 other hand, winding through variegated plains, 
to v/hich distance lent all its magic, glittered many and 
many a stream by which Etruscan and Sybarite, Eoman 
and Saracen and Norman had, at intervals of ages, 
pitched the invading tent. All the visions of the past 
— the stormy and dazzling histories of Southern Italy — 
rushed over the artist’s mind as he gazed below. And 
then, slowly turning to look behind, he saw the gray and 
mouldering walls of the castle in which he sought the 
secrets that were to give to hope in the future a mightier 
empire than memory owns in the past. It was one of 
those baronial fortresses with which Italy was studded 
in the earlier middle ages, having but little of the Gothic 
grace or grandeur which belongs to the ecclesiastical 
architecture of the same time, but rude, vast, and menac- 
ing, even in decay. A wooden bridge was thrown over 
the chasm, wide enough to admit two horsemen abreast; 
and the planks trembled and gave back a hollow sound 
as Glyndon urged his jaded steed across. 

A road which had once been broad and paved with 
rough flags, but which now was half-obliterated by long 
grass and rank weeds, conducted to the outer court of the 
castle hard by ; the gates were open, and half the build- 
ing in this part was dismantled; the ruins partially hid 
by ivy that was the growth of centuries. But on enter- 
ing the inner court, Glyndon was not sorry to notice that 
there was less appearance of neglect and decay ; some wild 
roses gave a smile to the gray walls, and in the centre there 
was a fountain in which the waters still trickled coolly, 
and with a pleasing murmur, from the jaws of a gigantic 
Triton. Here he was met by Mejnour with a smile. 

“Welcome, my friend and pupil,” said he; “he who 
seeks for Truth can find in these solitudes an immortal 
Academe.” 


ZANONI. 


267 


CHAPTER II. 

And Abaris, so far from esteeming Pythagoras, who taught these 
things, a necromancer or wizard, rather revered and admired 
him as something divine. — Iamblich., Vit. Pythag. 

The attendants whom Mejnour had engaged for his 
strange abode were such as might suit a philosopher of 
few wants. An old Armenian whom Glyndon recog- 
nized as in the mystic’s service at Naples, a tall, 
hard-featured woman from the village, recommended by 
Maestro Paolo, and two long-haired, smooth-spoken, but 
fierce-visaged youths from the same place, and honored 
by the same sponsorship, constituted the establishment. 
The rooms used by the sage were commodious and 
weather-proof, with some remains of ancient splendor in 
the faded arras that clothed the walls, and the huge 
tables of costly marble and elaborate carving. Glyndon’s 
sleeping apartment communicated with a kind of bel- 
vedere, or terrace, that commanded prospects of unrivalled 
beauty and extent, and w^as separated on the other side 
by a long gallery, and a flight of ten or a dozen stairs, 
from the private chambers of the mystic. There was 
about the whole place a sombre and yet not displeasing 
depth of repose. It suited well with the studies to 
which it was now to he appropriated. 

For several days Mejnour refused to confer with 
Glyndon on the subjects nearest to his heart. 

“ All without,” said he, “ is prepared, hut not all 
within; your own soul must grow accustomed to the 


268 


ZANONI. 


spot, and filled with the surrounding nature; for ^Nature 
is the source of all inspiration. ” 

With these words Mejnour turned to lighter topics. 
He made the Englishman accompany him in long ram- 
bles through the wild scenes around, and he smiled 
approvingly when the young artist gave way to the 
enthusiasm which their fearful beauty could not have 
failed to rouse in a duller breast; and then Mejnour 
poured, forth to his wondering pupil the stores of a 
knowledge that seemed inexhaustible and boundless. 
He gave accounts the most curious, graphic, and minute 
of the various races (their characters, habits, creeds, and 
manners) by which that fair land had been successively 
overrun. It is true that his descriptions could not be 
found in books, and were unsupported by learned authori- 
ties ; but he possessed the true charm of the tale-teller, 
and spoke of all with the animated confidence of a per- 
sonal witness. Sometimes, too, he would converse upon 
the more durable and the loftier mysteries of Nature with 
an eloquence and a research which invested them with all 
the colors rather of poetry than science. Insensibly the 
young artist found himself elevated and soothed by the 
lore of his companion ; the fever of his wild desires was 
slaked. His mind became more and more lulled into the 
divine tranquillity of contemplation; he felt himself a 
nobler being; and in the silence of his senses he imagined 
that he heard the voice of his soul. 

It was to this state that Mejnoiu' evidently sought 
to bring the neophyte, and in this elementary initia- 
tion the mystic was like every more ordinary sage. For 
he who seeks to discover must first reduce himself 
into a kind of abstract idealism, and be rendered up, 
in solemn and sweet bondage, to the faculties which 
CONTEMPLATE and IMAGINE. 


ZANONI. 


269 


Glyndon noticed that, in their rambles, Mejnour often 
paused, where the foliage was rifest, to gather some 
herb or flower, and this reminded him that he had seen 
Zanoni similarly occupied. “ Can these humble children 
of Nature,” said he one day to Mejnour, — “things 
that bloom and wither in a day, be serviceable to the 
science of the higher secrets ? Is there a pharmacy for 
the soul as well as the body, and do the nurslings of the 
summer minister not only to human health but spiritual 
immortality ? ” 

“ If,” answered Mejnour, “ a stranger had visited a 
wandering tribe before one property of herbalism was 
known to them, if he had told the savages that the 
herbs which every day they trampled under foot were 
endowf 1 with the most potent virtues ; that one would 
reston to health a brother on the verge of death; that 
another would paralyze into idiocy their wisest sage; 
that a third would strike lifeless to the dust their most 
stalwart champion; that tears and laughter, vigor and 
disease, madness and reason, wakefulness and sleep, 
existence and dissolution, were coiled up in those unre- 
garded leaves, — would they not have held him a sorcerer 
or a liar ? To half the virtues of the vegetable world 
mankind are yet in the darkness of the savages I have 
supposed. There are faculties within us with which 
certain herbs have affinity, and over which they have 
power. The moly of the ancients is not all a fable. ” 

The apparent character of Mejnour differed in much 
from that of Zanoni; and while it fascinated Glyndon 
less, it subdued and impressed him more. The con- 
versation of Zanoni evinced a deep and general inter- 
est for mankind, — a feeling approaching to enthusiasm 
for art and beauty. The stories circulated concerning 
his habits elevated the mystery of his life by actions of 


270 


ZANONI. 


charity and beneficence. And in all this thare was 
something genial and humane that softened the awe he 
created, and tended, perhaps, to raise suspicions as to 
the loftier secrets that he arrogated to himself. But 
Mejnour seemed wholly indifferent to all the actual 
world. If he committed no evil, he seemed equally 
apathetic to good. His deeds relieved no want, his 
words pitied no distress. What we call the heart 
appeared to have merged into the intellect. He moved, 
thought, and lived like some regular and calm abstrac- 
tion, rather than one who yet retained, with the form, 
the feelings and sympathies of his kind. 

Glyndon once, observing the tone of supreme indif- 
ference with which he spoke of those changes on the 
face of earth which he asserted he had witnessed, ven- 
tured to remark to him the distinction he had noted. 

“It is true,” said Mejnour, coldly. “My life is the 
life that contemplates, — Zanoni’s is the life that enjoys; 
when I gather the herb, I think but of its uses ; Zanoni 
will pause to admire its beauties. ” 

“ And you deem your own the superior and the loftier 
existence ? ” 

“Ho. His is the existence of youth, — mine of 
age. We have cultivated different faculties. Each has 
powers the other cannot aspire to. Those with whom 
he associates live better, — those who associate with me 
know more. ” 

“ I have heard, in truth, ” said Glyndon, “ that his 
companions at Naples were observed to lead purer and 
nobler lives after intercourse with Zanoni; yet were 
they not strange companions, at the best, for a sage? 
This terrible power, too, that he exercises at will, as in 

the death of the Prince di , and that of the Count 

Ughelli, scarcely becomes the tranquil seeker after good/' 


ZANONI. 


271 


“True/' said Mejnour, with an icy smile; “such 
must ever be the error of those philosophers who would 
meddle with the active life of mankind. You cannot 
serve some without injuring others; you cannot pro- 
tect the good without warring on the bad ; and if you 
desire to reform the faulty, why, you must lower your- 
self to live with the faulty to know their faults. Even 
so saith Paracelsus, a great man, though often wrong. ^ 
Not mine this folly ; I live hut in knowledge, — I have 
no life in mankind ! ” 

Another time Glyndon questioned the mystic as to the 
nature of that union or fraternity to which Zanoni had 
once referred. 

“ I am right, I suppose, ” said he, “ in conjecturing 
that you and himself profess to he the brothers of the 
Posy Gross ? ” 

“ Do you imagine, ” answered Mejnour, “ that there 
were no mystic and solemn unions of men seeking the 
same end through the same means before the Arabians 
of Damns, in 1378, taught to a wandering German the 
secrets which founded the Institution of the Posicrucians ? 
I allow, however, that the Posicrucians formed a sect 
descended from the greater and earlier school. They 
were wiser than the Alchemists, — their masters are 
wiser than they.” 

“ And of this early and primary order how many still 
exist ? ” 

“ Zanoni and myself. ” 

“ What, two only ! — and you profess the power to 
teach to all the secret that baffles Death ? ” 

“Your ancestor attained that secret; he died rather 

1 It is as necessary to know evil things as good ; for who can 
know what is good without the knowing what is evil ? ” etc. — 
Paracelsus, De Nat. Rer., lib 3. 


272 


ZANONI. 


than survive the only thing he loved. We have, my 
pupil, no arts hy which we can put Death out of our 
option^ or out of the will of Heaven. These walls may 
crush me as I stand. All that we profess to do is but 
this, — to find out the secrets of the human frame ; to 
know why the parts ossify and the blood stagnates , and 
to apply continual preventives to the effects of time. 
This is not magic; it is the art of medicine rightly under- 
stood. In our order we hold most noble, — first, that 
knowledge which elevates the intellect; secondly, that 
which preserves the body. But the mere art (extracted 
from the juices and simples) which recruits the animal 
vigor and arrests the progress of decay, or that more 
noble secret, which I will only hint to thee at present, 
by which heat, or caloric, as ye call it, being, as 
Heraclitus wisely taught, the primordial principle of 
life, can be made, its perpetual renovater, — these, I say, 
would not suffice for safety. It is ours also to disarm 
and elude the wrath of men, to turn the swords of our 
foes against each other, to glide (if not incorporeal) 
invisible to eyes over which we can throw a mist and 
darkness. And this some seers have professed to be the 
virtue of a stone of agate. Abaris placed it in his arrow. 
I will find you an herb in yon valley that will give a surer 
charm than the agate and the arrow. In one word, 
know this, that the humblest and meanest products of 
Nature are those from which the sublimest properties are 
to be drawn.” 

“ But, ” said Glyndon, ** if possessed of these great 
secrets, why so churlish in withholding their diffusion? 
Does not the false or charlatanic science differ in this 
from the true and indisputable, — that the last communi- 
cates to the world the process by which it attains its 
discoveries; the first boasts of marvellous results, and 
refuses to explain the causes ? ” 


ZANONI. 


273 


“Well said, 0 Logician of the Schools; but think 
again. Suppose we were to impart all our knowledge to 
all mankind indiscriminately, — alike to the vicious and 
the virtuous, — should we he benefactors or scourges ? 
Imagine the tyrant, the sensualist, the evil and corrupted 
being possessed of these tremendous powers; would he 
not be a demon let loose on earth ? Grant that the same 
privilege he accorded also to the good; and in what state 
would be society ? Engaged in a Titan war, — the good 
forever on the defensive, the bad forever in assault. In 
the present condition of the earth, evil is a more active 
principle than good, and the evil would prevail. It is 
for these reasons that we are not only solemnly bound to 
administer our lore only to those who will not misuse 
and pervert it, but that we place our ordeal in tests that 
purify the passions and elevate the desires. And Nature 
in this controls and assists us : for it places awful guar- 
dians and insurmountable barriers between the ambition of 
vice and the heaven of the loftier science. ” 

Such made a small part of the numerous conversations 
Mejnour held with his pupil, — conversations that, 
while they appeared to address themselves to the reason, 
inflamed yet more the fancy. It was the very disclaim- 
ing of all powers which Nature, properly investigated, 
did not suffice to create, that gave an air of probability 
to those which Mejnour asserted Nature might bestow. 

Thus days and weeks rolled on; and the mind of 
Glyndon, gradually fitted to this sequestered and musing 
life, forgot at last the vanities and chimeras of the 
world without. 

One evening he had lingered alone and late upon the 
ramparts, watching the stars as, one by one, they broke 
upon the twilight. Never had he felt so sensibly the 
mighty power of the heavens and the earth upon man; 

ig 


274 


ZANONI. 


how much the springs of our intellectual being are 
moved and acted upon by the solemn influences of Nature. 
As a patient on whom, slowly and by degrees, the 
agencies of mesmerism are brought to bear, he acknowl- 
edged to his heart the growing force of that vast and 
universal magnetism which is the life of creation, and 
binds the atom to the whole. A strange and ineffable 
consciousness of power, of the something great within 
the perishable clay, appealed to feelings at once dim and 
glorious, — like the faint recognitions of a holier and 
former being. An impulse, that he could not resist, led 
him to seek the mystic. He would demand, that hour, 
his initiation into the worlds beyond our world,— he 
was prepared to breathe a diviner air. He entered the 
castle, and strode the shadowy and starlit gallery which 
conducted to Mejnour’s apartment. 


ZANONI. 


275 


CHAPTER III. 

Man is the eye of things. — Euryph , de Vit. Hum. 

, . . There is, therefore, a certain ecstatical or transporting power, 
which, if at any time it shall be excited or stirred up by an 
ardent desire and most strong imagination, is able to conduct 
the spirit of the more outward even to some absent and far- 
distant object. — Von Helmont. 

The rooms that Mejnour occupied consisted of two 
chambers communicating with each other, and a third 
in which he slept. All these rooms were placed in the 
huge square tower that beetled over the dark and bush- 
grown precipice. The first chamber which Glyndon 
entered was empty. With a noiseless step he passed 
on, and opened the door that admitted into the inner 
one. He drew back at the threshold, overpowered by a 
strong fragrance which filled the chamber: a kind of 
mist thickened the air rather than obscured it, for this 
vapor was not dark, but resembled a snow-cloud moving 
slowly, and in heavy undulations, wave upon wave 
regularly over the space. A mortal cold struck to the 
Englishman’s heart, and his blood froze. He stood 
rooted to the spot; and as his eyes strained involun- 
tarily through the vapor, he fancied (for he could not 
be sure that it was not the trick of his imagination) that 
he saw dim, spectre-like, but gigantic forms floating 
through the mist; or was it not rather the mist itself 
that formed its vapors fantastically into those moving, 
impalpable, and bodiless apparitions? A great painter 
of antiquity is said, in a picture of Hades, to have repre- 


278 


ZANONI. 


sented the monsters that glide through the ghostly 
Kiver of the Dead, so artfully, that the eye perceived at 
once that the river itself was but a spectre, and the 
bloodless things that tenanted it had no life, their forms 
blending with the dead waters till, as the eye continued 
to gaze, it ceased to discern them from the preternatural 
element they were supposed to inhabit. Such were the 
moving outlines that coiled and floated through the mist ; 
hut before Glyndon had even drawn breath in this 
atmosphere — for his life itself seemed arrested or 
changed into a kind of horrid trance — he felt his hand 
seized, and he was led from that room into the outer 
one. He heard the door close, — his blood rushed again 
through his veins, and he saw Mejnour by his side. 
Strong convulsions then suddenly seized his whole 
frame, — he fell to the ground insensible. When he 
recovered, he found himself in the open air in a rude 
balcony of stone that jutted from the chamber, the stars 
shining serenely over the dark abyss below, and resting 
calmly upon the face of the mystic, who stood beside 
him with folded arms. 

“Young man,” said Mejnour, “judge by what you 
have just felt, how dangerous it is to seek knowledge 
until prepared to receive it. Another moment in the 
air of that chamber and you had been a corpse.” 

“Then of what nature was the knowledge that you, 
once mortal like myself, could safely have sought in 
that icy atmosphere, which it was death for me to 
breathe? Mejnour,” continued Glyndon, and his wild 
desire, sharpened by the very danger he had passed, 
once more animated and nerved him, “T am prepared 
at least for the first steps. I come to you as of 
old the pupil to the Hierophant, and demand the 
initiation. ” 


ZANONI. 


277 


Mejnour passed his hand over the young man’s heart, 
— it heat loud, regularly, and boldly. He looked at 
him with something almost like admiration in his pas- 
sionless and frigid features, and muttered, half to him- 
self, “Surely, in so much courage the true disciple is 
found at last.” Then, speaking aloud, he added, 
“Be it so; man’s first initiation is in trance. In 
dreams commences all human knowledge; in dreams 
hovers over measureless space the first faint bridge 
between spirit and spirit,— this world and the worlds 
beyond! Look steadfastly on yonder star! ” 

Glyndon obeyed, and Mejnour retired into the cham- 
ber, from which there then slowly emerged a vapor, 
somewhat paler and of fainter odor than that which had 
nearly produced so fatal an effect on his frame. This, 
on the contrary, as it coiled around him, and then 
melted in thin spires into the air, breathed a refreshing 
and healthful fragrance. He still kept his eyes on the 
star, and the star seemed gradually to fix and command 
his gaze. A sort of languor next seized his frame, but 
without, as he thought, communicating itself to the 
mind; and as this crept over him, he felt his temples 
sprinkled with some volatile and fiery essence. At the 
same moment a slight tremor shook his limbs and 
thrilled through his veins. The languor increased, 
still he kept his gaze upon the star, and now its lumi- 
nous circumference seemed to expand and dilate. It 
became gradually softer and clearer in its light; spread- 
ing wider and broader, it diffused all space, — all space 
seemed swallowed up in it. And at last, in the midst 
of a silver shining atmosphere, he felt as if something 
burst within his brain, — as if a strong chain were 
broken; and at that moment a sense of heavenly liberty, 
of unutterable delight, of freedom from the body, of 


278 


ZANONI. 


birdlike lightness, seemed to float him into the space 
itself. “ Whom, now upon earth, dost thou wish to 
see 1 ” whispered the voice of Mejnour, “ Viola and 
Zanoni! ” answered Glyndon, in his heart; but he felt 
that his lips moved not. Suddenly at that thought, — 
through this space, in which nothing save one mellow 
translucent light had been discernible, — a swift suc- 
cession of shadowy landscapes seemed to roll : trees, 
mountains, cities, seas, glided along like the changes of 
a phantasmagoria; and at last, settled and stationary, he 
saw a cave by the gradual marge of an ocean shore, — 
myrtles and orange-trees clothing the gentle banks. On 
a height, at a distance, gleamed the white but shattered 
relics of some ruined heathen edifice; and the moon, in 
calm splendor, shining over all, literally bathed with 
its light two forms without the cave, at whose feet the 
blue waters crept, and he thought that he even heard 
them murmur. He recognized both the figures. Zanoni 
was seated on a fragment of stone; Viola, half-reclining 
by his side, was looking into his face, which was bent 
down to her, and in her countenance was the expression 
of that perfect happiness which belongs to perfect love. 
‘‘Wouldst thou hear them speak? ” whispered Mejnour; 
and again, without sound, Glyndon inly answered, 
“ Yes! ” Their voices then came to his ear, but in tones 
that seemed to him strange; so subdued were they, and 
sounding, as it were, so far off, that they were as voices 
heard in the visions of some holier men from a distant 
sphere. 

“And how is it,” said Viola, “ that thou canst find 
pleasure in listening to the ignorant ? ” 

“ Because the heart is never ignorant; because the mys- 
teries of the feelings are as full of wonder as those of the 
intellect. If at times thou canst not comprehend the 


ZANONI. 279 

language of my thoughts, at times also I hear sweet 
enigmas in that of thy emotions.” 

“ Ah, say not so! ” said Viola, winding her arm ten- 
derly round his neck, and under that heavenly light her 
face seemed lovelier for its blushes. “ For the enigmas 
are hut love’s common language, and love should solve 
them. Till I knew thee, — till I lived with thee; till 
I learned to watch for thy footstep when absent: yet 
even in absence to see thee everywhere ! — I dreamed not 
how strong and all-pervading is the connection between 
nature and the human soul ! . . . 

" And yet,” she continued, “ I am now assured of 
what I at first believed, — that the feelings which 
attracted me towards thee at first were not those of love. 
I know that^ by comparing the present with the past, 
— it was a sentiment then wholly of the mind or the 
spirit! I could not hear thee now say, ‘ Viola, be 
happy with another! ’ ” 

" And I could not now tell thee so! Ah, Viola, 
never be weary of assuring me that thou art happy ! ” 

“Happy while thou art so. Yet at times, Zanoni, 
thou art so sad! ” 

“Because human, life is so short; because we must 
part at last; because yon moon shines on when the 
nightingale sings to it no more! A little while, and 
thine eyes will grow dim, and thy beauty haggard, and 
these locks that I toy with now will be gray and 
loveless.” 

“ And thou, cruel one! ” said Viola, touchingly, “ I 
shall never see the signs of age in thee ! But shall we 
not grow old together, and our eyes be accustomed to a 
change which the heart shall not share! ” 

Zanoni sighed. He turned away, and seemed to 
commune with himself. 


280 


ZANONI. 


Glyndon’s attention grew yet more earnest. 

“But were it so,” muttered Zanoni ; and then looking 
steadfastly at Viola, he said, with a half-smile, “ Hast 
thou no curiosity to learn more of the lover thou once 
couldst believe the agent of the Evil One ? ” 

“ None; all that one wishes to know of the beloved 
one, I know — that thou lovest me ! ” 

“ I have told thee that my life is apart from others. 
Wouldst thou not seek to share it? ” 

“ I share it now! ” 

“ But were it possible to he thus young and fair for- 
ever, till the world blazes round us as one funeral 
pyre ! ” 

“ We shall be so, when we leave the world! ” 

Zanoni was mute for some moments, and at length he 
said, — 

“ Canst thou recall those brilliant and aerial dreams 
which once visited thee, when thou didst fancy that 
thou wert preordained to some fate aloof and afar from 
the common children of the earth ? ” 

“ Zanoni, the fate is found.” 

“ And hast thou no terror of the future ? ” 

“The future! I forget it! Time past and present 
and to come reposes in thy smile. Ah, Zanoni, play 
not with the foolish credulities of my youth! I have 
been better and humbler since thy presence has dispelled 
the mist of the air. The future! — well, when I have 
cause to dread it, I will look up to heaven, and remem- 
ber who guides our fate! ” 

As she lifted her eyes above, a dark cloud swept sud- 
denly over the scene. It wrapped the orange-trees, the 
azure ocean , the dense sands ; but still the last images 
that it veiled from the charmed eyes of Glyndon were 
the forms of Viola and Zanoni. The face of the one 


ZANONI. 


281 


rapt, serene, and radiant; the face of the other, dark, 
thoughtful , and locked in more than its usual rigidness 
of melancholy beauty and profound repose. 

“ E/Ouse thyself,” said Mejnour; “ thy ordeal has com- 
menced! There are pretenders to the solemn science 
who could have shown thee the absent, and prated to 
thee, in their charlatanic jargon, of the secret electrici- 
ties and the magnetic fluid of whose true properties 
they know hut the germs and elements. I will lend 
thee the hooks of those glorious dupes, and thou wilt 
find, in the dark ages, how many erring steps have 
stumbled upon the threshold of the mighty learning, 
and fancied they had pierced the temple. Hermes and 
Albert and Paracelsus, I knew ye all: but, noble as 
ye were, ye were fated to he deceived. Ye had not 
souls of faith, and daring fitted for the destinies at 
which ye aimed! Yet Paracelsus — modest Paracelsus 
— had an arrogance that soared higher than all our 
knowledge. Ho ! ho ! — he thought he could make a 
race of men from chemistry; he arrogated to himself the 
Divine gift, — the breath of life.^ He would have made 
men, and, after all, confessed that they could be but pyg- 
mies! My art is to make men above mankind. But 
you are impatient of my digressions. Forgive me. 
All these men (they were great dreamers, as you desire 
to be) were intimate friends of mine. But they are dead 
and rotten. They talked of spirits, — hut they dreaded 
to he in other company than that of men. Like orators 
whom I have heard, when I stood by the Pnyx of 
Athens, blazing with words like comets in the assembly, 
and extinguishing their ardor like holiday rockets 
when they were in the field. Ho! ho! Demosthenes, my 
hero-coward, how nimble were thy heels at Chaeronea! 

1 Paracelsus, De Nat. Rer., lib. i. 


282 


ZANONI. 


And thou art impatient still ! Boy, I could tell thee 
such truths of the past as would make thee the luminary 
of schools. But thou lustest only for the shadows of 
the future. Thou shalt have thy wish. But the mind 
must be first exercised and trained. Go to thy room, 
and sleep; fast austerely; read no books; meditate, 
imagine, dream, bewilder thyself if thou wilt. 
Thought shapes out its own cha(3s at last. Before 
midnight, seek me again! ” 


ZANONI. 


283 


CHAPTER ly. 

It is fit that we who endeavor to rise to an elevation so sublime, 
should study first to leave behind carnal affections, the frailty of 
the senses, the passions that belong to matter; secondly, to 
learn by what means we may ascend to the climax of pure 
intellect, united with the powers above, without which never can 
we gain the lore of secret things, nor the magic that effects true 
wonders. — T ritemius On Secret Things and Secret Spirits. 

It wanted still many minutes of midnight, and Glyndon 
was once more in the apartment of the mystic. He had 
rigidly observed the fast ordained to him; and in the 
rapt and intense reveries into which his excited fancy 
had plunged him, he was not only insensible to the 
wants of the flesh, — he felt above them. 

Mejnour, seated beside his disciple, thus addressed 
him: — 

“ Man is arrogant in proportion to his ignorance. 
Man’s natural tendency is to egotism. Man, in his 
infancy of knowledge, thinks that all creation was 
formed for him. For several ages he saw in the count- 
less worlds that sparkle through space like the bubbles 
of a shoreless ocean only the petty candles, the house- 
hold torches, that Providence had been pleased to light 
for no other purpose but to make the night more agree- 
able to man. Astronomy has corrected this delusion of 
human vanity ; and man now reluctantly confesses that 
the stars are worlds larger and more glorious than his 
own, — that the earth on which he crawls is a scarce 
visible speck on the vast chart of creation. But in the 


284 


ZANONL 


small as in the vast, God is equally profuse of life. 
The traveller looks upon the tree, and fancies its houghs 
were formed for his shelter in the summer sun, or his 
fuel in the winter frosts. But in each leaf of these 
boughs the Creator has made a world; it swarms with 
innumerable races. Each drop of the water in yon 
moat is' an orb more populous than a kingdom is of 
men. Everywhere, then, in this immense design, 
science brings new life to light. Life is the one pervad- 
ing principle, and even the thing that seems to die and 
putrify but engenders new life, and changes to fresh 
forms of matter. Reasoning, then, by evident analogy: 
if not a leaf, if not a drop of water, but is, no less 
than yonder star, a habitable and breathing world, — 
nay, if even man himself is a world to other lives, and 
millions and myriads dwell in the rivers of his blood, 
and inhabit man’s frame as man inhabits earth, common- 
sense (if your schoolmen had it) would suffice to teach 
that the circumfluent infinite which you call space — 
the boundless Impalpable which divides earth from the 
moon and stars — is filled also with its correspondent 
and appropriate life. Is it not a visible absurdity to 
suppose that being is crowded upon every leaf, and yet 
absent from the immensities of space ? The law of the 
Great System forbids the waste even of an atom; it 
knows no spot where something of life does not breathe. 
In the very charnel-house is the nursery of production 
and animation. Is that true? Well, then, can you 
conceive that space, which is the Infinite itself, is alone 
a waste, is alone lifeless, is less useful to the one design 
of universal being than the dead carcass of a dog, than 
the peopled leaf, than the swarming globule ? The 
microscope shows you the creatures on the leaf ; no 
mechanical tube is yet invented to discover the nobler 


ZANONI. 


285 


and more gifted things that hover in the illimitable air. 
Yet between these last and man is a mysterious and 
terrible affinity. And hence, by tales and legends, not 
wholly false nor wholly true, have arisen from time 
to time, beliefs in apparitions and spectres. If more 
common to the earlier and simpler tribes than to the 
men of your duller age, it is but that, with the first, 
the senses are more keen and quick. And as the savage 
can see or scent miles away the traces of a foe, invisible 
to the gross sense of the civilized animal, so the barrier 
itself between him and the creatures of the airy world is 
less thickened and obscured. Do you listen? ” 

“With my soul! ” 

“But first, to penetrate this barrier, the soul with 
which you listen must be sharpened by intense enthu- 
siasm, purified from all earthlier desires. Not without 
reason have the so-styled magicians, in all lands and 
times, insisted on chastity and abstemious reverie as 
the communicants of inspiration. When thus prepared, 
science can be brought to aid it; the sight itself may 
be rendered more subtle, the nerves more acute, the 
spirit more alive and outward, and the element itself — 
the air, the space — may be made , by Certain secrets of 
the higher chemistry, more palpable and clear. And 
this, too, is not magic, as the credulous call it; as I have 
•30 often said before, magic (or science that violates 
Nature) exists not: it is but the science by which 
Nature can be controlled. Now, in space there are 
millions of beings not literally spiritual, for they have 
all, like the animalculae unseen by the naked eye, cer- 
tain forms of matter, though matter so delicate, air- 
drawn, and subtle, that it is, as it were, but a film, a 
gossamer that clothes the spirit. Hence the Bosicru- 
cian's lovely phantoms of sylph and gnome. Yet, in 


286 


ZANONI. 


truth, these races and tribes differ more widely, each 
from each, than the Calmuc from the Greek, — differ in 
attributes and powers. In the drop of water you see how 
the animalculse vary, how vast and terrible are some of 
those monster mites as compared with others. Equally 
so with the inhabitants of the atmosphere: some of 
surpassing wisdom, some of horrible malignity; some 
hostile as fiends to men, others gentle as messengers 
between earth and heaven. He who would establish 
intercourse with these varying beings resembles the 
traveller who would penetrate into unknown lands. 
He is exposed to strange dangers and unconjectured 
terrors. That intercourse once gained^ I cannot secure 
thee from the chances to which thy journey is exposed. 
I cannot direct thee to paths free from the wanderings, 
of the deadliest foes. Thou must alone, and of thyself, 
face and hazard all. But if thou art so enamoured of 
life as to care only to live on, no matter for what ends, 
recruiting the nerves and veins with the alchemist’s, 
vivifying elixir, why seek these dangers from the inter- 
mediate tribes? Because the very elixir that pours a 
more glorious life into the frame, so sharpens the senses 
that those larvae ’ of the air become to thee audible and 
apparent; so that, unless trained by degrees to endure 
the phantoms and subdue their malice, a life thus gifted 
would be the most awful doom man could bring upon 
himself. Hence it is, that though the elixir be com- 
pounded of the simplest herbs, his frame only is pre- 
pared to receive it who has gone through the subtlest, 
trials. Nay, some, scared and daunted into the most 
intolerable horror by the sights that burst upon their 
eyes at the first draught, have found the potion less 
powerful to save than the agony and travail of Nature to 
destroy. To the unprepared the elixir is thus but the 


ZANONI. • 


287 


deadliest poison. Amidst the dwellers of the threshold 
is ONE, too, surpassing in malignity and hatred all her 
tribe, — one whose eyes have paralyzed the bravest, and 
whose power increases over the spirit precisely in pro- 
portion to its fear. Does thy courage falter 1 ” 

“ Nay; thy words but kindle it.” 

“ Eollow me, then, and submit to the initiatory 
labors. ” 

With that, Mejnour led him into the interior cham- 
ber, and proceeded to explain to him certain chemical 
operations which, though extremely simple in them- 
selves, Glyndon soon perceived were capable of very 
extraordinary results. 

“ In the remoter times,” said Mejnour, smiling, “ our 
brotherhood were often compelled to recur to delusions 
to protect realities; and, as dexterous mechanicians or 
expert chemists, they obtained the name of sorcerers. 
Observe how easy to construct is the Spectre Lion that 
attended the renowned Leonardo da Vinci ! ” 

And Glyndon beheld with delighted surprise the sim- 
ple means by which the wildest cheats of the imagina- 
tion can be formed. The magical landscapes in which 
Baptista Porta rejoiced; the apparent change of the 
seasons with which Albertus Magnus startled the Earl 
of Holland; nay, even those more dread delusions of 
the Ghost and Image with which the necromancers of 
Heraclea woke the conscience of the conqueror of 
Plataea,^ — all these, as the showman enchants some 
trembling children on a Christmas Eve with his lantern 
and phantasmagoria, Mejnour exhibited to his pupil. 

“ And now laugh forever at magic! when these, the 
very tricks, the very sports and frivolities of science, 

1 Pausanias, — see Plutarch. . 


288 


ZANONI. 


were the very acts which men viewed with abhorrence 
and inquisitors and kings rewarded with the rack an^ 
the stake.” 

“ But the alchemist’s transmutation of metals — ” 

“ Nature herself is a laboratory in which metals, and 
all elements, are forever at change. Easy to make gold, 
— easier, more commodious, and cheaper still, to make 
the pearl, the diamond, and the ruby. Oh, yes; wise 
men found sorcery in this too ; but they found no 
sorcery in the discovery that by the simplest combina- 
tion of things of every-day use they could raise a devil 
that would sweep away thousands of their kind by the 
breath of consuming fire. Discover what will destroy 
life, and you are a great man! — what will prolong it, 
and you are an impostor! Discover some invention in 
machinery that will make the rich more rich and the 
poor more poor, and they will build you a statue! 
Discover some mystery in art that will equalize physical 
disparities, and they will pull down their own houses 
to stone you! Ha, ha, my pupil! such is the world 
Zanoni still cares for! — you and I will leave this world 
to itself. And now that you have seen some few of the 
effects of science , begin to learn its grammar. ” 

Mejnour then set before his pupil certain tasks, in 
v/hich the rest of the night wore itself away. 


ZANONI. 


289 


CHAPTER V. 

Great travell hath the gentle Calidore 
And toyle endured . . . 

There on a day, — 

He chaunst to spy a sort of shepheard groomes, 

Playing on pipes and caroling apace. 

. . . He, there, besyde 
Saw a faire damzell. 

Spenser, Faerie Qaeene, cant ix. 

For a considerable period the pupil of Mejnour was 
now absorbed in labor dependent on the most vigilant 
attention, on the most minute and subtle calculation. 
Results astonishing and various rewarded his toils and 
stimulated his interest. Nor were these studies limited 
to chemical discovery, — in which it is permitted me to 
say that the greatest marvels upon the organization of 
physical life seemed wrought by experiments of the vivi- 
fying influence of heat. Mejnour professed to find a 
link between all intellectual beings in the existence of a 
certain all-pervading and invisible fluid resembling elec- 
tricity, yet distinct from the known operations of that 
mysterious agency — a fluid that connected thought to 
thought with the rapidity and precision of the modern 
telegraph, and the influence of this influence, according 
to Mejnour, extended to the remotest past, — that is to 
say, whenever and wheresoever man had thought. Thus, 
if the doctrine were true, all human knowledge became 
attainable through a medium established between the 
brain of the individual inquirer and all the farthest and 

19 


290 


ZANONI. 


obscurest regions in the universe of ideas. Glyndon was 
surprised to find Mejnour attached to the abstruse mys- 
teries which the Pythagoreans ascribed to the occult 
science of Numbers. In this last, new lights glimmered 
dimly on his eyes ; and he began to perceive that even 
the power to predict, or rather to calculate, results, 
might by — 

But he observed that the last brief process by which, 
in each of these experiments, the wonder was achieved, 
Mejnour reserved for himself, and refused to communi- 
cate the secret. The answer he obtained to his remon- 
strances on this head was more stern than satisfactory : 

“ Dost thou think, ” said Mejnour, “ that I would 
give to the mere pupil, whose qualities are not yet tried, 
powers that might change the face of the social world ? 
The last secrets are intrusted only to him of whose vir- 
tue the Master is convinced. Patience! It is labor 
itself that is the great purifier of the mind; and by 
degrees the secrets will grow upon thyself as thy mind 
becomes riper to receive them.” 

At last Mejnour professed himself satisfied with the 
progress made by his pupil. The hour now arrives, ” 
he said, “ when thou mayst pass the great but airy 
barrier, — when thou mayst gradually confront the terri- 
ble Dweller of the Threshold. Continue thy labors, 
— continue to suppress thine impatience for results until 
thou canst fathom the causes. I leave thee for one 
month ; if at the end of that period, when I return, the 
tasks set thee are completed, and thy mind prepared by 
contemplation and austere thought for the ordeal, I 
promise thee the ordeal shall commence. One caution 
alone I give thee : regard it as a peremptory command, 

1 Here there is an erasure in the MS. 


ZANONL 


291 


enter not this chamber ! ” (They were then standing 
in the room where tjieir experiments had been chiefly 
made, and in which Glyndon, on the night he had 
sought the solitude of the mystic, had nearly fallen a 
victim to his intrusion.) 

“ Enter not this chamber till my return ; or, above all, 
if by any search for materials necessary to thy toils thou 
shouldst venture hither, forbear to light the naphtha 
in those vessels, and to open the vases on yonder shelves. 
I leave the key of the room in thy keeping, in order 
to try thy abstinence and self-control. Young man, this 
very temptation is a part of thy trial. ” 

With that, Mejnour placed the key in his hands, 
and at sunset he left the castle. 

Eor several days Glyndon continued immersed in 
employments which strained to the utmost all the 
faculties of his intellect. Even the most partial success 
depended so entirely on the abstraction of the mind, 
ami the minuteness of its calculations, that there was 
scarcely room for any other thought than those absorbed 
in the occupation. And doubtless this perpetual strain 
of the faculties was the object of Mejnour in works that 
did not seem exactly pertinent to the purposes in view. 
As the study of the elementary mathematics, for example, 
is not so profitable in the solving of problems, useless in 
our after-callings, as it is serviceable in training the 
intellect to the comprehension and analysis of general 
truths. 

But in less than half the time which Mejnour had 
stated for the duration of his absence, all that the 
mystic had appointed to his toils was completed by the 
pupil ; and then his mind, thus relieved from the 
drudgery and mechanism of employment, once more 
sought occupation in dim conjecture and restless fancies. 


292 


ZANONI. 


His inquisitive and rash nature grew excited by the 
prohibition of Mejnour, and he ^found himself gazing 
too often, with perturbed and daring curiosity, upon 
the key of the forbidden ' chamber. He began to feel 
indignant at a trial of constancy which he deemed frivo- 
lous and puerile. What nursery tales of Bluebeard and 
his closet were revived to daunt and terrify him ! How 
could the mere walls of a chamber, in which he had so- 
often securely pursued his labors, start into living 
danger ? If haunted, it could be but by those delusions 
which Mejnour had taught him to despise, — a shadowy 
lion, — a chemical phantasm! Tush! he lost half his 
awe of Mejnour, when he thought that by such tricks 
the sage could practise upon the very intellect he had 
awakened and instructed ! Still he resisted the impulses, 
of his curiosity and his pride, and, to escape from their 
dictation, he took long rambles on the hills, or amidst 
the valleys that surrounded the castle, — seeking by 
bodily fatigue to subdue the unreposing mind. One day 
suddenly emerging from a dark ravine, he came upon 
one of those Italian scenes of rural festivity and mirth 
in which the classic age appears to revive. It was a 
festival, partly agricultural, partly religious, held yearly 
by the peasants of that district. Assembled at the out- 
skirts of a village, animated crowds, just returned from 
a procession to a neighboring chapel, were now forming 
themselves into groups: the old to taste the vintage, the 
young to dance, — all to be gay and happy. This sudden 
picture of easy joy and careless ignorance, contrast- 
ing so forcibly with the intense studies and that parching 
desire for wisdom which had so long made up his own 
life, and burned at his own heart, sensibly affected 
Glyndon. As he stood aloof and gazing on them, the- 
young man felt once more that he was young. The- 


ZANONI. 


293 


memory of all he had been content to sacrifice spoke to 
him like the sharp voice of remorse. The flitting fo'rms 
of the women in their picturesque attire, their happy 
laughter ringing through the cool, still air of the autumn 
noon, brought back to the heart, or rather perhaps to 
the senses, the images of his past time, the “ golden shep- 
herd hours,” when to live was but to enjoy. 

He approached nearer and nearer to the scene, and 
suddenly a noisy group swept round him; and Maestro 
Paolo, tapping him familiarly on the shoulder, exclaimed 
in a hearty voice, “Welcome, Excellency! — we are 
rejoiced to see you amongst us.” Glyndon was about to 
reply to this salutation, when his eyes rested upon the 
face of a young girl leaning on Paolo’s arm, of a beauty 
so attractive that his color rose and his heart beat as he 
encountered her gaze. Her eyes sparkled with a roguish 
and petulant mirth, her parted lips showed teeth like 
pearls; as if impatient at the pause of her companion 
from the revel of the rest, her little foot beat the ground 
to a measure that she half-hummed, half-chanted. Paolo 
laughed as he saw the effect the girl had produced upon 
the young foreigner. 

“Will you not dance, Excellency? Come, lay aside 
your greatness, and be merry, like us poor devils. See 
how our pretty Eillide is longiiig for a partner. Take 
compassion on her.” 

Eillide pouted at this speech, and, disengaging her 
arm from Paolo’s, turned away, but threw over her 
shoulder a glance half inviting, half defying. Glyndon. 
almost involuntarily, advanced to her, and addressed her. 

Oh, yes; he addresses her! She looks down, and 
smiles. Paolo leaves them to themselves, sauntering off 
with a devil-me-carish air. Eillide speaks now, and 
looks up at the scholar’s face with arch invitation. He 


294 


ZANONI. 


shakes his head ; Fillide laughs, and her laugh is silVery. 
She’ points to a gay mountaineer, who is tripping up to 
her merrily. Why does Glyndon feel jealous? Why, 
when she speaks again, does he shake his head no more ? 
He offers his hand; Fillide blushes, and takes it with a 
demure coquetry. What! is it so, indeed! They whirl 
into the noisy circle of the revellers. Ha! ha! is not 
this better than distilling herbs, and breaking thy brains 
on Pythagorean numbers? How lightly Pillide bounds 
along! How her lithesome waist supples itself to thy 
circling arm ! Tara-ra-tara, ta-tara, rara-ra ! What tho 
devil is in the measure that it makes the blood course 
like quicksilver through the veins? Was there ever a 
pair of eyes like Pillide’s? Hothing of the cold stars 
there! Yet how they twinkle and laugh at thee! And 
that rosy, pursed-up mouth that will answer so sparingly 
to thy flatteries, as if words Avere a waste of time, and 
kisses were their proper language. Oh, pupil of Mejnour ! 
oh, would-be Kosicrucian, Platonist, Magian, I know 
not what ! I am ashamed of thee ! What, in the names 
of Averroes and Burri and Agrippa and Hermes have 
become of thy austere contemplations ? Was it for this 
thou didst resign Viola? I don’t think thou hast the 
smallest recollection of the elixir or the Cabala. Take 
care ! What are you about, sir ? Why do you clasp that 
small hand locked within your OAvn ? Why do you — 
Tara-rara tara-ra, tara-rara-ra, rarara, ta-ra a-ra! Keep 
your eyes off those slender ankles and that crimson 
bodice ! Tara-rara-ra ! There they go again ! And now 
they rest under the broad trees. The revel has whirled 
away from them. They hear — or do they not hear — 
the laughter at the distance? They see — or if they 
have their eyes about them, they should see — couple 
after couple gliding by, love-talking and love-looking. 


ZANONI. 


295 


But I will lay a wager, as they sit under that tree, and 
the round sun goes down behind the mountains, that 
they see or hear very little except themselves. 

“ Hollo, Signor Excellency ! and how does your 
partner please you ? Come and join our feast, loiterers; 
one dances more merrily after wine. ” 

Down goes the round sun ; up comes the autumn moon. 
Tara, tara, rarara, rarara, tarara-ra ! Dancing again ; is it 
a dance, or some movement gayer, noisier, wilder still? 
How they glance and gleam through the night shadows, 
those flitting forms ! What confusion ! — what order ! 
Ha, that is the Tarantula dance; Maestro Paolo foots it 
bravely ! Diavolo, what fury! the Tarantula has stung 
them all. Dance or die ; it is fury, — the Corybantes, 
the Maenads, the — Ho, ho ! more wine ! the Sabbat 
of the Witches at Benevento is a joke to this! Prom 
cloud to cloud wanders the moon, — now shining, now 
lost. Dimness while the maiden blushes; light when 
the maiden smiles. 

“ Eillide, thou art an enchantress ! ” 

“ Buona notte, Excellency ; you will see me again ! ” 
*'Ah, young man,” said an old, decrepit, hollow-eyed 
octogenarian, leaning on his staff, “ make the best of your 
youth. I, too, once had a Eillide! I was handsomer 
than you then ! Alas ! if we could be always young ! ” 

“ Always young ! ” Glyndon started, as he turned his 
gaze from the fresh, fair, rosy face of the girl, and saw the 
eyes dropping rheum, the yellow wrinkled skin, the 
tottering frame of the old man. 

“ Ha, ha ! ” said the decrepit creature, hobbling near -to 
him, and with a malicious laugh. “ Yet I, too, was young 
once ! Give me a baioccho for a glass of aqua vitge ! ” 
Tara, rara, ra-rara, tara, rara-ra! There dances Youthf 
Wrap thy rags round thee, and totter off, Old Age ! 


296 


ZANONI. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Whilest Calidore does follow that faire mayd, 
Unmindful of his vow and high beheast 
Which by the Faerie Queene was on him layd. 

Spenser, Faerie Queene, cant. x. s. 1 . 

It was that gray, indistinct, struggling interval between 
the night and the dawn, when Clarence stood once more 
in his chamber. The abstruse calculations lying on his 
table caught his eye, and filled him with a sentiment of 
weariness and distaste. But — “ Alas, if we could be 
always young! Oh, thou horrid spectre of the old, 
rheum-eyed man ! What apparition can the mystic 
chamber shadow forth more ugly and more hateful than 
thou? Oh, yes; if we could be always young! But 
not [thinks the neophyte now] — not to labor forever at 
these crabbed figures and these cold compounds of herbs 
and drugs. No; hut to enjoy, to love, to revel! 
What should he the companion of youth but pleasure ? 
And the gift of eternal youth may he mine this very 
hour! What means this prohibition of Mejnour’s ? Is 
it not of the same complexion as his ungenerous reserve 
even in the minutest secrets of chemistry, or the num- 
bers of his Cabala ? — compelling me to perform all the 
toils, and yet withholding from me the knowledge of 
the crowning result? No doubt he will still, on his 
return , show me that the great mystery can he attained ; 
but will still forbid me to attain it. Is it not as if he 
desired, to keep my youth the slave to his age; to 
make me dependent solely on himself; to bind me to 
a journeyman’s service by perpetual excitement to 


ZANONI. 


297 


curiosity , and the sight of the fruits he places beyond my 
lips ? ” These, and many reflections still more repining, 
disturbed and irritated him. Heated with wine — 
excited by the wild revels he had left — he was unable 
to sleep. The image of that revolting Old Age which 
Time, unless defeated, must bring upon himself, quick- 
ened the eagerness of his desire for the dazzling and 
imperishable Youth he ascribed to Zanoni. The pro- 
hibition only served to create a spirit of defiance. The 
reviving day, laughing jocundly through his lattice, 
dispelled all the fears and superstitions that belong to 
night. The mystic chamber presented to his imagina- 
tion nothing to differ from any other apartment in the 
castle. What foul or malignant apparition could harm 
him in the light of that blessed sun ! It was the pecu- 
liar, and on the whole most unhappy, contradiction in 
Glyndon’s nature, that while his reasonings led him to 
doubt, — and doubt rendered him in moral conduct 
irresolute and unsteady; he was physically brave to 
rashness. Nor is this uncommon: scepticism and 
presumption are often twins. When a man of this char- 
acter determines upon any action, personal fear never 
deters him; and for the moral fear, any sophistry suffices 
to self-will. Almost without analyzing himself the 
mental process by which his nerves hardened themselves 
and his limbs moved, he traversed the corridor, gained 
Mejnour^s apartment, and opened the forbidden door. 
All was as he had been accustomed to see it, save that 
on a table in the centre of the room lay open a large 
volume. He approached, and gazed on the characters 
on the page; they were in a cipher, the study of which 
had made a part of his labors. With but slight difficulty 
he imagined that he interpreted the meaning of the 
first sentences, and that they ran thus ; — 


2.98 


ZANONI. 


“ To quaff the inner life, is to see the outer life: to 
live in defiance of time, is to live in the whole. He 
who discovers the elixir discovers what lies in space; 
for the spirit that vivifies the frame strengthens the 
senses. There is attraction in the elementary principle 
of light. In the lamps of Rosicrucius the fire is the 
pure elementary principle. Kindle the lamps while 
thou openest the vessel that contains the elixir, and 
the light attracts towards thee those beings whose life 
is that light. Beware of Fear. Fear is the deadliest 
enemy to Knowledge.” Here the ciphers changed 
their character, and became incomprehensible. But 
had he not read enough? Did not the last sentence 
suffice? — "Beware of Fear!” It was as if Mejnour 
had purposely left the page open, — as if the trial was, 
in truth, the reverse of the one pretended; as if the 
mystic had designed to make experiment of his courage 
while affecting but that of his forbearance. Not 
Boldness, but Fear, was the deadliest enemy to Knowl- 
edge. He moved to the shelves on which the crystal 
vases were placed; with an untrembling hand he took 
from one of them the stopper, and a delicious odor 
suddenly diffused itself through the room. The air 
sparkled as if with a diamond-dust. A sense of 
unearthly delight, — of an existence that seemed all 
spirit, flashed through his whole frame; and a faint, low, 
but exquisite music crept, thrilling, through the 
chamber. At this moment he heard a voice in the 
corridor calling on his name; and presently there was a 
knock at the door without. " Are you there, signor? ” 
said the clear tones of Maestro Paolo. Glyndon hastily 
reclosed and replaced the vial, and bidding Paolo 
await him in his own apartment, tarried till he heard 
the intruder’s steps depart : he then reluctantly quitted 


ZANONI. 


299 


the room. As he locked the door, he still heard the- 
dying strain of that fairy music; and with a light step 
and a joyous heart he repaired to Paolo, inly resolving 
to visit again the chamber at an hour when his experi- 
ment would be safe from interruption. 

As he crossed his threshold, Paolo started back, and 
eltclaimed, “ Why, Excellency! I scarcely recognize 
you! Amusement, I see, is a great beautifier to the 
young. Yesterday you looked so pale and haggard; 
but Eillide’s merry eyes have done more for you than 
the Philosopher’s Stone (saints forgive me for naming 
it) ever did for the wizards.” And Glyndon, glancing 
at the old Venetian mirror as Paolo spoke, was scarcely 
less startled than Paolo himself at the change in his 
own mien and bearing. His form, before bent with 
thought, seemed to him taller by half the head, so 
lithesome and erect rose his slender stature ; his eyes 
glowed, his cheeks bloomed with health and the innate 
and pervading pleasure. If the mere fragranc® of the 
elixir was thus potent, well might the alchemists have 
ascribed life and youth to the draught! 

“ You must forgive me. Excellency, for disturbing 
you/’ said Paolo, producing a letter from his pouch; 
“ but our Patron has just written to me to say that he 
will be here to-morrow, and desired me to lose not a 
moment in giving to yourself this billet, which he 
enclosed.” 

“ Who brought the letter ? ” 

“ A horseman, who did not wait for any reply.” 

Glyndon opened the letter, and read as follows: — 

“ I return a week sooner than I had intended, and you will 
expect me to-morrow. You will then enter on the ordeal you 
desire, but remember that, in doing so, you must reduce 
Being as far as possible into Mind. The senses must be mor- 


300 


ZANONI. 


tifiecl and subdued, — not the whisper of one passion heard. 
Thou mayst be master of the Cabala and the Chemistry ; but 
thou must be master also over the Flesh and the Blood, — 
over Love and Vanity, Ambition and Hate. I will trust to 
find thee so. Fast and meditate till we meet ! 

Glyndon crumpled the letter in his hand with a 
smile of disdain. What! more drudgery, — more absti- 
nence! Youth without love and pleasure! Ha, ha! 
baffled Mejnour, thy pupil shall gain thy secrets wuthout 
thine aid! 

“And Fillide! I passed her cottage ’in my way, — 
she blushed and sighed when I jested her about you, 
Excellency! ” 

“Well, Paolo! I thank thee for so charming an 
introduction. Thine must be a rare life.” 

“Ah, Excellency, while we are young, nothing like 
adventure, — except love, wine, and laughter! ” 

“Very true. Farewell, Maestro Paolo; we will 
talk more with each other in a few days.” 

All that morning Glyndon was almost overpowered 
with the new sentiment of happiness that had entered 
into him. He roamed into the woods, and he felt a 
pleasure that resembled his earlier life of an artist, 
but a pleasure yet more subtle and vivid, in the vari- 
ous colors of the autumn foliage. Certainly Nature 
seemed to be brought closer to him; he comprehended 
better all that Mejnour had often preached to him of 
the mystery of sympathies and attractions. He was 
about to enter into the same law as those mute children 
of the forests. He was to know the renewal of life;- 
the seasons that chilled to winter should yet bring 
again the bloom and the mirth of spring. Man’s com- 
mon existence is as one year to the vegetable world : 
he has his spring, his summer, his autumn, and winter. 


ZANONL 


301 


— but only once. But the giant oaks round him go 
through a revolving series of verdure and youth , and the 
green of the centenarian is as vivid in the beams of May 
as that of the sapling by its side. “ Mine shall be your 
spring, but not your winter! ” exclaimed the aspirant. 

Wrapped in these sanguine and joyous reveries, 
Glyndon, quitting the woods, found himself amidst 
cultivated fields and vineyards to v/hich his footstep 
had not before wandered; and there stood, by the skirts 
of a green lane that reminded him of verdant England, 
a modest house, — half cottage, half farm. The door 
was open, and he saw a girl at work with her distaff. 
Shje looked up, uttered a slight cry, and, tripping gayly 
into the lane to his side, he recognized the dark-eyed 
Eillide. 

" Hist! ” she said, archly putting her finger to 
her lip; “do not speak loud, — my mother is asleep 
within ; and I knew you would come to see me. It is 
kind! ” 

Glyndon, with a little embarrassment, accepted the 
compliment to his kindness, which he did not exactly 
deserve. “You have thought, then, of me, fair 
Eillide 

“Yes,” answered the girl, coloring, but with that 
frank, bold ingenuousness, which characterizes the 
females of Italy, especially of the lower class, and in 
the southern provinces, — “ oh, yes ! I have thought of 
little else. Paolo said he knew you would visit me.” 

“ And what relation is Paolo to you 1 ” 

“None; but a good friend to us all. My brother is 
one of his band. ” 

“ One of his band ! — a robber ? ” 

“We of the mountains do not call a mountaineer ‘a 
robber,’ signor.” 


302 


ZANONI. 


" I ask pardon. Do you not tremble sometimes for 
your brother’s life? The law — ” 

“ Law never ventures into these defiles. Tremble for 
him! No. My father and grandsire were of the same 
calling. I often wish I were a man! ” 

“ By these lips, I am enchanted that your wish cannot 
be realized.” 

“ Fie, signor! And do you really love me? ” 

“ With my whole heart! ” 

“And I thee!” said the girl, with a candor that 
seemed innocent, as she suffered him to clasp her 
hand. 

“But,” she added, “thou wilt soon leave us; and 
I — ” She stopped short, and the tears stood in her 
eyes. 

There was something dangerous in this, it must be 
confessed. Certainly Fillide had not the seraphic 
loveliness of Viola; but hers was a beauty that equally 
at least touched the senses. Perhaps Glyndon had 
never really loved Viola; perhaps the feelings with 
which she had inspired him were not of that ardent 
character which deserves the name of love. However 
that be, he thought, as he gazed on those dark eyes, 
that he had never loved before. 

“ And couldst thou not leave thy mountains ? ” he 
whispered, as he drew yet nearer to her. 

“ Dost thou ask me? ” she said, retreating, and look- 
ing him steadfastly in the face. “ Dost thou know 
what we daughters of the mountains are? You gay, 
smooth cavaliers of cities seldom mean what you speak. 
With you, love is amusement; with us, it is life. 
Leave these mountains! Well! I should not leave 
luy nature.” 

“ Keep thy nature ever, — it is a sweet one.” 


ZANONI. 


303 


“Yes, sweet while thou art true; stern, if thou art 
faithless. Shall I tell thee what I — what the girls of 
this country are ? Daughters of men whom you call 
robbers, we aspire to be the companions of our lovers or 
our husbands. We love ardently; we own it boldly. 
We stand by your side in danger; we serve you as slaves 
in safety: we never change, and we resent change. You 
may reproach, strike us, trample us as a dog, — we hear 
all without a murmur; betray us, and no tiger is more 
relentless. Be true, and our hearts reward you; he false, 
and our hands revenge ! Dost thou love me now ? ” 

During this speech the Italian’s countenance had most 
eloquently aided her words, — by turns soft, frank, fierce, 
— and at the last question she inclined her head humbly, 
and stood, as in fear of his reply, before him. The 
stern, brave, wild spirit, in which what seemed unfem- 
inine was yet, if I may so say, still womanly, did not 
recoil, it rather captivated Glyndon. He answered 
readily, briefly, and freely, “ Fillide, — yes! ” 

Oh, “yes! ” forsooth, Clarence Glyndon! Every 
light nature answers “ yes ” lightly to such a question 
from lips so rosy! Have a care, — have a care! Why 
the deuce, Mejnour, do you leave your pupil of four- 
and-twenty to the mercy of these wild cats-a-mountain ! 
Preach fast, and abstinence, and sublime renunciation 
of the cheats of the senses! Very well in you, sir. 
Heaven knows how many ages old; hut at four-and- 
twenty, your Hierophant would have kept you out of 
Fillide’s way, or you would have had small taste for 
the Cabala. 

And so they stood, and talked, and vowed, and 
whispered, till the girl’s mother made some noise within 
the house, and Fillide hounded back to the distaff, 
her finger once more on her lip. 


304 


ZANONI. 


“There is more magic in Fillide than in Mejnour,” 
said Glyndon to himself, walking gayly home; “ yet on 
second thoughts, I know not if I quite so well like a 
character so ready for revenge. But he who has the real 
secret can baffle even the vengeance of a woman, and 
disarm all danger! ” 

Sirrah! dost thou even already meditate the possibility 
of treason ? Oh, well said Zanoni, “ to pour pure water 
into the muddy well does but disturb the mud.” 


ZANONI. 


305 


CHAPTER VII. 

Cernis, custodia qualis 

Vestibulo sedeat 1 facies quas limina servetl ^ 

^neidy lib. vi 574. 

And it is profound night. All is at rest within the 
old castle, — all is breathless under the melancholy stars. 
Now is the time. Mejnour with his austere wisdom, 

— Mejnour the enemy to love; Mejnour, whose eye 
will read thy heart, and refuse thee the promised secrets 
because the sunny face of Fillide disturbs the lifeless 
shadow that he calls repose, — Mejnour comes to-morrow ! 
Seize the night! Beware of fear! Never, or this 
hour! So, brave youth, — brave despite all thy errors, 

— so, with a steady pulse, thy hand unlocks once more 
the forbidden door. 

He placed his lamp on the table beside the book, 
which still lay there opened; he turned over the leaves, 
but could not decipher their meaning till he came to 
the following passage : — 

When, then, the pupil is thus initiated and prepared, 
let him open the casement, light the lamps, and bathe 
his temples with the elixir. He must beware how he 
presume yet to quaff the volatile and fiery spirit. To 
taste till repeated inhalations have accustomed the frame 
gradually to the ecstatic liquid, is to know not life, but 
death.’’ 

He could penetrate no farther into the instructions; 
the cipher again changed. He now looked steadily and 

1 See you what porter sits within the vestibule ’ — what face 
watches at the threshold 1 


20 


306 


ZANONI. 


earnestly round the chamber. The moonlight came 
quietly through the lattice as his hand opened it, and 
seemed, as it rested on the floor, and filled the walls, 
like the presence of some ghostly and mournful Power. 
He ranged the mystic lamps (nine in number) round the 
centre of the room, and lighted them one by one. A 
flame of silvery and azure tints sprung up from each, 
and lighted the apartment with a calm and yet most 
dazzling splendor; but presently this light grew more 
soft and dim, as a thin, gray cloud, like a mist, grad- 
ually spread over the room; and an icy thrill shot 
through the heart of the Englishman, and quickly gath- 
ered over him like the coldness of death. Instinctively 
aware of his danger, he tottered, though with difliculty, 
for his limbs seemed rigid and stone-like, to the shelf 
that contained the crystal vials; hastily he inhaled the 
spirit, and laved his temples with the sparkling liquid. 
The same sensation of vigor and youth, and joy and airy 
lightness, that he had felt in the morning, instantane- 
ously replaced the deadly numbness that just before had 
invaded the citadel of life. He stood, with his arms 
folded on his bosom erect and dauntless, to watch what 
should ensue. 

The vapor had now assumed almost the thickness and 
seeming consistency of a snow-cloud ; the lamps piercing 
it like stars. And now he distinctly saw shapes, some- 
what resembling in outline those of the human form, 
gliding slowly and with regular evolutions through the 
cloud. They appeared bloodless; their bodies were 
transparent, and contracted or expanded like the folds 
of a serpent. As they moved in majestic order, he 
heard a low sound — the ghost, as it were, of voice — 
which each caught and echoed from the other; a low 
sound, but musical, which seemed the chant of some 


ZANONI. 


SOT 


unspeakably tranquil joy. None of these apparitions; 
heeded him. His intense longing to accost them, to- 
be of them, to make one of this movement of aerial 
happiness, — for such it seemed to him, — made him 
stretch forth his arms and seek to cry aloud, but only 
an inarticulate whisper passed his lips; and the move- 
ment and the music went on the same as if the mortal 
were not there. Slowly they glided round and aloft, till, 
in the same majestic order, one after one, they floated 
through the casement and were lost in the moonlight* 
then, as his eyes followed them, the casement became 
darkened with some object undistinguishable at the first 
gaze, but which sufficed' mysteriously to change into 
ineffable horror the delight he had before experienced. 
By degrees this object shaped itself to his sight. It 
was as that of a human head covered with a dark veil 
through which glared, with livid and demoniac fire, 
eyes that froze the marrow of his bones. Nothing else 
of the face was distinguishable, — nothing but those 
intolerable eyes; but his terror, that even at the first 
seemed beyond nature to endure, was increased a 
thousand-fold, when, after a pause, the phantom glided 
slowly into the chamber. The cloud retreated from it 
as it advanced; the bright lamps grew wan, and flick- 
ered restlessly as at the breath of its presence. Its 
form was veiled as the face, but the outline was that of 
a female; yet it moved not as move even the ghosts 
that simulate the living. It seemed rather to crawl as 
some vast misshapen reptile; and pausing, at length it 
cowered beside the table which held the mystic volume, 
and again fixed its eyes through the filmy veil on the 
rash invoker. All fancies, the most grotesque, of monk 
or painter in the early North, would have failed to give 
to the visage of imp or fiend that aspect of deadly malig* 


308 


ZANONI. 


nity which spoke to the shuddering nature in those 
eyes alone. All else so dark, — shrouded, veiled and 
larvadike. But that burning glare so intense, so livid, 
yet so living, had in it something that was almost 
human in its passion of hate and mockery, — something 
that served to show that the shadowy Horror was not all 
a spirit, but partook of matter enough, at least, to make 
it more deadly and fearful an enemy to material forms. 
As, clinging with the grasp of agony to the wall, — 
his hair erect, his eyeballs starting, he still gazed back 
upon that appalling gaze, — the Image spoke to him: 
his soul rather than his ear comprehended the words it 
said. 

“ Thou hast entered the immeasurable region. I am 
the Dweller of the Threshold. What wouldst thou 
with me % Silent ? Dost thou fear me ? Am I not 
thy beloved? Is it not for me that thou hast rendered 
up the delights of thy race? Wouldst thou he wise? 
Mine is the wisdom of the countless ages. Kiss me, my 
mortal lover. ” And the Horror crawled near and nearer 
to him; it crept to his side, its breath breathed upon his 
cheek! With a sharp cry he fell to the earth insen- 
sible, and knew no more till, far in the noon of the next 
day, he opened his eyes and found himself in his bed, 
— the glorious sun streaming through his lattice, and the 
bandit Paolo by his side, engaged in polishing his 
carbine, and whistling a Calabrian love-air. 


ZANONL 


309 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Thus man pursues his weary calling, 

And wrings the hard life from the sky. 

While happiness unseen is falling 
Down from God’s bosom silently. 

Schiller. 

In one of those islands whose history the imperishable 
literature and renown of Athens yet invest with melan- 
choly interest, and on which Nature, in whom “ there 
is nothing melancholy, ” still bestows a glory of scenery 
and climate equally radiant for the freeman or the 
slave, — the Ionian, the Venetian, the Gaul, the Turk, 
or the restless Briton, — Zanoni had fixed his bridal 
home. There the air carries with it the perfumes of 
the plains for miles along the blue, translucent deep.^ 
Seen from one of its green sloping heights, the island 
he had selected seemed one delicious garden. The 
towers and turrets of its capital gleaming amidst groves 
of oranges and lemons; vineyards and olive-woods filling 
up the valleys, and clambering along the hill-sides ; 
and villa, farm, and cottage covered with luxuriant 
trellises of dark-green leaves and purple fruit. For 
there the prodigal beauty yet seems half to justify those 
graceful superstitions of a creed that, too enamoured of 
earth, rather brought the deities to man, than raised the. 
man to their less alluring and less voluptuous Olympus. 

And still to the fishermen, weaving yet their antique 
dances on the sand; to the maiden, adorning yet, with 

^ See Dr. Holland’s “ Travels to the Ionian Isles,” etc., p. 18 . 


310 


ZANONI. 


many a silver fibula, her glossy tresses under the tree 
that overshadows her tranquil cot, — the same Great 
Mother that watched over the wise of Samos, the 
democracy of Corcyra, the graceful and deep-taught 
loveliness of Miletus, smiles as graciously as of yore. 
For the North, philosophy and freedom are essentials 
to human happiness; in the lands which Aphrodite rose 
from the waves to govern, as the Seasons, hand in 
hand, stood to welcome her on the shores,^ Nature is 
all-sufficient. 

The isle which Zanoni had selected was one of the 
loveliest in that divine sea. His abode, at some dis- 
tance from the city, but near one of the creeks on the 
shore, belonged to a Venetian, and, though small, had 
more of elegance than the natives ordinarily cared for. 
On the seas, and in sight, rode his vessel. His Indians, 
as before, ministered in mute gravity to the service of 
the household. No spot could be more beautiful, — 
no solitude less invaded. To the mysterious knowledge 
of Zanoni, to the harmless ignorance of Viola, the 
babbling and garish world of civilized man was alike 
unheeded. The loving sky and the lovely earth are 
companions enough to Wisdom and to Ignorance while 
they love. 

Although, as I have before said, there was nothing 
in the visible occupations of Zanoni that betrayed a 
cultivator of the occult sciences, his habits were those 
of a man who remembers or reflects. He loved to roam 
alone, chiefly at dawn, or at night, when the moon was 
clear (especially in each month, at its rise and full), 
miles and miles away over the rich inlands of the island, 
and to cull herbs and flowers, which he hoarded with 
jealous care. Sometimes, at the dead of night, Viola 
^ Homeric Hymn. 


ZANONI. 


311 


would wake by an instinct that told her he was not by 
her side, and, stretching out her arras, find that the 
instinct had not deceived her. But she early saw that 
he was reserved on his peculiar habits; and if at times 
a chill, a foreboding, a suspicious awe crept over her, 
she forbore to question him. But his rambles were 
not always unaccompanied, — he took pleasure in excur- 
sions less solitary. Often, when the sea lay before them 
like a lake, the barren dreariness of the opposite coast of 
Cephallenia contrasting the smiling shores on which they 
dwelt, Viola and himself would pass days in cruising 
slowly around the coast, or in visits to the neighboring 
isles. Every spot of the Greek soil, “ that fair Fable- 
Land, ” seemed to him familiar ; and as he conversed of 
the past and its exquisite traditions, he taught Viola to 
love the race from which have descended the poetry and 
the wisdom of the world. There was much in Zanoni, 
as she knew him better, that deepened the fascination in 
which Viola was from the first enthralled. His love for 
herself was so tender, so vigilant, and had that best and 
most enduring attribute, that it seemed rather grateful 
for the happiness in its own cares than vain of the hap- 
piness it created. His habitual mood with all who 
approached him was calm and gentle, almost to apathy. 
An angry word never passed his lips, — an angry gleam 
never shot from his eye's. Once they had been exposed 
to the danger not uncommon in those then half-savage 
lands. Some pirates who infested the neighboring coasts 
had heard of the arrival of the strangers, and the sea- 
men Zanoni employed had gossiped of their master’s 
wealth. One night, after Viola had retired to rest, she 
was awakened by a slight noise below. Zanoni was not 
by her side; she listened in some alarm. Was that a 
groan that came upon her ear? She started up, she 


312 


ZANONI. 


went to the door; all was still. A footstep now slowly 
approached, and Zanoni entered calm as usual, and 
seemed unconscious of her fears. The next morning 
three men were found dead at the threshold of the 
principal entrance, the door of which had been forced. 
They were recognized in the neighborhood as the most 
sanguinary and terrible marauders of the coasts, — men 
stained with a thousand murders, and who had never 
hitherto failed in any attempt to which the lust of 
rapine had impelled them. The footsteps of many 
others were tracked to the seashore. It seemed that their 
accomplices must have fled on the death of their leaders. 
But when the Venetian Proveditore, or authority, 
of the island, came to examine into the matter, the most 
unaccountable mystery was the manner in which these 
ruffians had met their fate. Zanoni had not stirred 
from the apartment in which he ordinarily pursued his 
chemical studies. Hone of the servants had even been 
disturbed from their slumbers. Ho marks of human 
violence were on the bodies of the dead. They died, 
and made no sign. From that moment Zanoni’s house 
— nay, the whole vicinity — was sacred. The neighbor- 
ing villages, rejoiced to he delivered from a scourge, 
regarded the stranger as one whom the Pagiana (or 
Virgin) held under her especial protection. In truth, 
the lively Greeks around, facile* to all external impres- 
sions, and struck with the singular and majestic beauty 
of the man who knew their language as a native, whose 
voice often cheered them in their humble sorrows, and 
whose hand was never closed to their wants, long after 
he had left their shore preserved his memory by grate- 
ful traditions, and still point to the lofty platanus 
beneath which they had often seen him seated, alone 
and thoughtful, in the heats of noon. But Zanoni had 


ZANONI. 


313 


haunts less open to the gaze than the shade of the 
platanus. In that isle there are the bituminous springs 
which Herodotus has commemorated. Often at night, 
the moon, at least, beheld him emerging from the 
myrtle and cystus that clothe the hillocks around the 
marsh that imbeds the pools containing the imflammable 
materia, all the medical uses of which, as applied to the 
nerves of organic life, modern science has not yet per- 
haps explored. Yet more often would he pass his hours 
in a cavern, by the loneliest part of the beach, where 
the stalactites seem almost arranged by the hand of art, 
and which the superstition of the peasants associates, in 
some ancient legends, with the numerous and almost 
incessant earthquakes to which the island is so singularly 
subjected. 

Whatever the pursuits that instigated these wander- 
ings and favored these haunts, either they were linked 
with, or else subordinate to, one main and master desire, 
which every fresh day passed in the sweet human 
company of Viola confirmed and strengthened. 

The scene that Glyndon had witnessed in his trance 
was faithful to truth. And some little time after the 
date of that night, Viola was diftily aware that an influ- 
ence, she knew not of what nature, was struggling to 
establish itself over her happy life. Visions indistinct 
and beautiful, such as those she had known in her earlier 
days, but more constant and impressive, began to haunt 
her night and day when Zanoni was absent, to fade in 
his presence, and seem less fair than that. Zanoni 
questioned her eagerly and minutely of these visitations, 
but seemed dissatisfied, and at times perplexed, by her 
answers. 

“ Tell me not, ” he said, one day, “ of those uncon- 
nected images, those evolutions of starry shapes in a 


314 


ZANONI. 


choral dance, or those delicious melodies that seem to 
thee of the music and the language of the distant spheres. 
Has no one shape been to thee more distinct and more 
beautiful than the rest, — no voice uttering, or seeming 
to utter, thine own tongue, and whispering to thee of 
strange secrets and solemn knowledge % ” 

“ No ; all is confused in these dreams, whether of day 
or night; and when at the sound of thy footsteps I 
recover, my memory retains nothing but a vague impres- 
sion of happiness. How different — how cold — to the 
rapture of hanging on thy smile, and listening to thy 
voice, when it says, ‘ I love thee ! ’ ” 

“ Yet, how is it that visions less fair than these once 
seemed to thee so alluring % How is it that they then 
stirred thy fancies and filled thy heart? Once thou 
didst desire a fairy-land, and now thou seemest so con- 
tented with common life. ” 

“ Have I not explained it to thee before ? Is it 
common life, then, to love, and to live with the one we 
love ? My true fairy-land is won ! Speak to me of no 
other. ” 

And so night surprised them by the lonely beach; 
and Zanoni, allured from his sublimer projects, and 
bending over that tender face, forgot that, in the Har- 
monious Infinite which spread around, there were other 
worlds than that one human heart. 


ZANONI. 


315 


CHAPTER IX. 

There is a principle of the soul, superior to all nature, through 
which we are capable of surpassing the order and systems of 
the world. When the soul is elevated to natures better than 
itself, then it is entirely separated from subordinate natures, 
exchanges this for another life, and, deserting the order of 
things with which it was connected, links and mingles itself 
with another. — Iamblichus. 

“Adox-Ai! Adon-Ai! — appear, appear!” 

And in the lonely cave, whence once had gone forth 
the oracles of a heathen god, there emerged from the 
shadows of fantastic rocks a luminous and gigantic 
column, glittering and shifting. It resembled the shining 
hut misty spray which, seen afar off, a fountain seems 
to send up on a starry night. The radiance lit the 
stalactites, the crags, the arches of the cave, and shed 
a pale and tremulous splendor on the features of Zanoni. 

“Son of Eternal Light,” said the invoker, “ thou to 
whose knowledge, grade after grade, race after race, I 
attained at last, on the broad Chaldean plains ; thou from 
whom I have drawn so largely of the unutterable 
knowledge that yet eternity alone can suffice to drain; 
thou who, congenial with myself, so far as our various 
beings will permit, hast been for centuries my familiar 
and my friend, — answer me and counsel! ” 

From the column there emerged a shape of unimagin- 
able glory. Its face was that of a man in its first youth, 
but solemn, as with the consciousness of eternity and the 
tranquillity of wisdom; light, like starbeams, flowed 
through its transparent veins; light made its limbs 


316 


ZANONI. 


themselves, and undulated, in restless sparkles, through 
the waves of its dazzling hair. With its arms folded on 
its breast, it stood distant a few feet from Zanoni, and its 
low voice murmured gently, “ My counsels were sweet 
to thee once ; and once, night after night, thy soul could 
follow my wings through the untroubled splendors of the 
Infinite. Now thou hast bound thyself back to the 
earth by its strongest chains, and the attraction to the 
clay is more potent than the sympathies that drew to thy 
charms the Dweller of the Starbeam and the Air. 
When last thy soul hearkened to me, the senses already 
troubled thine intellect and obscured thy vision. Once 
again I come to thee ; but thy power even to summon me 
to thy side is fading from thy spirit, as sunshine fades 
from the wave when the winds drive the cloud between 
the ocean and the sky. ” 

“ Alas, Adon-Ai ! ” answered the seer, mournfully, “ I 
know too well the conditions of the being which thy 
presence was wont to rejoice. I know that our wisdom 
comes but from the indifference to the things of the world 
which the wisdom masters. The mirror of the soul can- 
not reflect both earth and heaven ; and the one vanishes 
from the surface as the other is glassed upon its deeps. 
But it is not to restore me to that sublime abstraction in 
which the intellect, free and disembodied, rises, region 
after region, to the spheres, — that once again, and with 
the agony and travail of enfeebled power I have called thee 
to mine aid. I love ; and in love I begin to live in the 
sweet humanities of another. If wise, yet in all which 
makes danger powerless against myself, or those on whom 
I can gaze from the calm height of indifferent science, I 
am blind as the merest mortal to the destinies of the 
creature that makes my heart beat with the passions 
which obscure my gaze.” 


ZANONI. 


317 


“ What matter ! ” answered Adon-Ai. Thy love 
must be hut a mockery of the name ; thou canst not love 
as they do for whom there are death and the grave. A 
short time, — like a day in thy incalculable life, — and the 
form thou dotest on is dust! Others of the nether world 
go hand in hand, each with each, unto the tomb; hand 
in hand they ascend from the worm, to new cycles of 
existence. Tor thee, below are ages; for her, hut hours. 
And for her and thee — O poor, but mighty one ! — will 
there be even a joint hereafter! Through what grades 
and heavens of spiritualized being will her soul have 
passed when thou, the solitary loiterer, comest from the 
vapors of the earth to the gates of light ! ” 

“ Son of the Starheam, thinkest thou that this thought 
is not with me forever; and seest thou not that I have 
invoked thee to hearken and minister to my design? 
Keadest thou not my desire and dream to raise the con- 
ditions of her being to my own ? Thou, Adon-Ai, 
bathing the celestial joy that makes thy life in the 
oceans of eternal splendor, — thou, save by the sympathies 
of knowledge, canst conjecture not what I, the offspring 
of mortals, feel — debarred yet from the objects of the 
tremendous and sublime ambition that first winged my 
desires above the clay — when I see myself compelled to 
stand in this low world alone. I have sought amongst 
my tribe for comrades, and in vain. At last I have found 
a mate. The wild bird and the wild beast have theirs; 
and my mastery over the malignant tribes of terror can 
banish their larvae from the path that shall lead her 
upward, till the air of eternity fits the frame for the elixir 
that baffles death.” 

“ And thou hast begun the initiation, and thou art 
foiled! I know it. Thou hast conjured to her sleep the 


318 


ZANONI. 


fairest visions; thou hast invoked the loveliest children 
of the air to murmur their music to her trance, and her 
soul heeds them not, and, returning to the earth, escapes 
from their control. Blind one, wherefore ? Canst thou 
not perceive ? Because in her soul all is love. There 
is no intermediate passion with which the things thou 
wouldst charm to her have association and affinities. 
Their attraction is but to the desires and cravings of the 
intellect. What have they with the passion that is of 
earth, and the hope that goes direct to heaven ? ” 

“ But can there he no medium — no link — in which 
our souls, as our hearts, can be united, and so mine may 
have influence over her own ? ” 

“ Ask me not, — thou wilt not comprehend me ! ” 

“ I adjure thee ! — speak ! ” 

“ When two souls are divided, knowest thou not that 
a third in which both meet and live is the link between 
them! ” 

“ I do comprehend thee , Adon-Ai, ” said Zanoni, with 
a light of more human joy upon his face than it had ever 
before been seen to wear ; “ and if my destiny, which 
here is dark to mine eyes, vouchsafes to me the happy 
lot of the humble, — if ever there be a child that I may 
clasp to my bosom and call my own — ” 

“ And is it to be man at last, that thou hast aspired to 
be more than man ” 

“ But a child, — a second Viola I ” murmured Zanoni, 
scarcely heeding the Son of Light ; “ a young soul fresh 
from heaven, that I may rear from the first moment it 
touches earth, — whose wings I may train to follow 
mine through the glories of creation; and through whom 
the mother herself may be led upward over the realm of 
death! ” 


Z AN ONI. 


319 


“ Beware, — reflect ! Knowest thou not that thy 
darkest enemy dwells in the Eeal ? Thy wishes bring 
thee near and nearer to humanity. ” 

“ Ah, humanity is sweet ! ” answered Zanoni. 

And as the seer spoke, on the glorious face of Adon- 
Ai there broke a smile. 


320 


ZANONL 


CHAPTER X. 

Sterna aeternus tribuit, mortalia confert 
Mortalis , divina Deus, peritura caducus.^ 

Aurel. Prud. contra Symmachum, lib. ii. 


EXTRACTS FROM THE LETTERS OF ZANONI TO MEJNOUR. 

LETTER I. 

Thou hast not informed me of the progress of thy pupil ; and 
I fear that so differently does circumstance shape the minds of 
the generations to which we are descended, from the intense 
and earnest children of the earlier world, that even thy most 
careful and elaborate guidance would fail, with loftier and 
purer natures than that of the neophyte thou hast admitted 
within thy gates. Even that third state of being, which the 
Indian sage ^ rightly recognizes as being between the sleep and 
the waking, and describes imperfectly by the name of trance, 
is unknown to the children of the Northern world ; and few 
but would recoil to indulge it, regarding its peopled calm as 
mdyd and delusion of the mind. Instead of ripening and cul- 
turing that airy soil, from which Nature, duly known, can 
evoke fruits so rich and flowers so fair, they strive but to 
exclude it from their gaze ; they esteem that struggle of the 
intellect from men’s narrow world to the spirit’s infinite home, 
as a disease which the leech must extirpate with pharmacy and 
drugs, and know not even that it is from this condition of 

1 The Eternal gives eternal things, the Mortal gathers mortal 
things : God, that which is divine, and the perishable that which is 
perishable. 

2 The Brahmins, speaking of Brahm, say, “ To the Omniscient 
the three modes of being — sleep, waking, and trance — are not ; ” 
distinctly recognizing trance as a third and coequal condition of 
being. 


ZANONI. 


321 


their being, in its most imperfect and infant form, that poetry, 
music, art — all that belong to an Idea of Beauty to which 
neither sleeping nor waking can furnish archetype and actual 
semblance — take their immortal birth. When we, 0 Mejnoui^ 
in the far time, were, ourselves the neophytes and aspirants, 
we were of a class to which the actual world was shut and 
barred. Our forefathers had no object in life but knowledge. 
From the crtidle we were predestined and reared to wisdom 
as to a priesthood. We commenced research where modern 
Conjecture closes its faithless wings. And with us, those 
were the common elements of science which the sages of 
to-day disdain as wild chimeras, or despair of as unfathomable 
mysteries. Even the fundamental principles, the large yet 
simple theories of electricity and magnetism, rest obscure and 
dim in the disputes of their blinded schools ; yet, even in our 
youth, how few ever attained to the first circle of the brother- 
hood, and, after wearily enjoying the sublime privileges they 
sought, they voluntarily abandoned the light of the sun, and 
sunk, without effort, to the grave, like pilgrims in a trackless 
desert, overawed by the stillness of their solitude, and appalled 
by the* absence of a goal. Thou, in whom nothing seems to 
live hut the desire to know; thou, who, indifferent whether it 
leads to weal or to woe, lendest thyself to all who would tread 
the path of mysterious science, a human book, insensate 
to the precepts it enounces, — thou hast ever sought, and often 
made additions to our number. But to these have only been 
vouchsafed partial secrets ; vanity and passion unfitted them 
for the rest ; and now, without other interest than that of an 
experiment in science, without love, and without pity, thou 
exposes! this new soul to the hazards of the tremendous 
ordeal ! Thou thinkest that a zeal so inquisitive, a courage 
so absolute and dauntless, may suffice to conquer, where 
austerer intellect and purer virtue have so often failed. Thou 
thinkest, too, that the germ of art that lies in the painter’s 
mind, as it comprehends in itself the entire embryo of power 
and beauty, may be expanded into the stately flower of the 
Golden Science. It is a new experiment to thee. Be gentle 
with thy neophyte, and if his nature disappoint thee in the 

21 


322 


ZANONI. 


first stages of the process, dismiss him hack to the Real while 
it is yet time to enjoy the brief and outward life which dwells 
in the senses, and closes with the tomb. And as I thus 
admonish thee, O Mejnour, wilt thou smile at my inconsistent 
hopes ? I, who have so invariably refused to initiate others 
into our mysteries, — I begin at last to comprehend why the 
great law, which binds man to his kind, even when seeking 
most to set himself aloof from their condition, has made thy 
cold and bloodless science the link between thyself and thy 
race ; why, thou hast sought converts and pupils ; why, in 
seeing life after life voluntarily dropping from our starry 
order, thou still aspirest to renew the vanished, and repair 
the lost ; why, amidst thy calculations, restless and unceasing 
as the wheels of Nature herself, thou recoilest from the thought 
TO BE ALONE ! So with myself ; at last I, too, seek a con- 
vert, an equal, — I, too, shudder to be alone! What thou 
hast warned me of has come to pass. Love reduces all things 
to itself. Either must I be drawn down to the nature of the 
beloved, or hers must be lifted to my own. As whatever 
belongs to true Art has always necessarily had attraction for 
us, whose very being is in the ideal whence Art descends, so 
in this fair creature I have learned, at last, the secret that 
bound me to her at the first glance. The daughter of music, 
— music, passing into her being, became poetry. It was not 
the stage that attracted her, with its hollow falsehoods; it was 
the land in her own fancy which the stage seemed to centre 
and represent. There the poetry found a voice, — there it 
struggled into imperfect shape ; and then (that land insuflS.- 
cient for it) it fell back upon itself. It colored her thoughts, 
it suffused her' soul ; it asked not words, it created not things ; 
it gave birth but to emotions, and lavished itself on dreams. 
At last came love ; and there, as a river into the sea, it poured 
its restless waves, to become mute and deep and still, — the 
everlasting mirror of the heavens. 

And is it not through this poetry which lies within her that 
she may be led into the large poetry of the universe I Often 
I listen to her careless talk, and find oracles in its unconscious 
beauty, as we find strange virtues in some lonely flower. I see 


ZANONI. 


323 


fier mind ripening under my eyes ; and in its fair fertility 
what ever-teeming novelties of thought ! O Mejnour ! how 
many of our tribe have unravelled the laws of the universe, — 
have solved the riddles of the exterior nature, and deduced the 
light from darkness! And is not the POET, who studies 
nothing but the human heart, a greater philosopher than all ? 
Knowledge and atheism are incompatible. To know Nature 
is to know that there must be a God. But does it require this 
to examine the method and architecture of creation ? Methinks, 
when I look upon a pure mind, however ignorant and child- 
like, that I see the August and Immaterial One more clearly 
than in all the orbs of matter which career at His bidding 
through space. 

Eightly is it the fundamental decree of our order, that we 
must impart our secrets only to the pure. The most terrible 
part of the ordeal is in the temptations that our power affords 
to the criminal. If it were possible that a malevolent being 
could attain to our faculties, what disorder it might intro- 
duce into the globe ! Happy that it is not possible ; the 
malevolence would disarm the power. It is in the purity of 
Viola that I rely, as thou more vainly hast relied on the 
courage or the genius of thy pupils. Bear me witness, 
Mejnour ! Never since the distant day in which I pierced the 
Arcana of our knowledge, have I ever sought -to make its 
mysteries subservient to unworthy objects ; though, alas ! the 
extension of our existence robs us of a country and a home ; 
though the law that places all science, as all art, in the 
abstraction from the noisy passions and turbulent ambition of 
actual life, forbids us to influence the destinies of nations, for 
which Heaven selects ruder and blinder agencies; yet, wher- 
ever have been my wanderings, I have sought to soften 
distress, and to convert from sin. My power has been hostile 
only to the guilty ; and yet with all our lore, how in each 
step we are reduced to be but the permitted instruments of 
the Power that vouchsafes our own, but only to direct it. 
How all our wisdom shrinks into nought, compared with that 
which gives the meanest herb its virtues, and peoples the 
smallest globule with its appropriate world. And while we 


324 


ZANONI. 


are allowed at times to influence the happiness of others, how 
mysteriously the shadows thicken round our own future 
doom! We cannot be prophets to ourselves! With what 
trembling hope I nurse the thought that I may preserve to 
my solitude the light of a living smile ! 


EXTRACTS FROM LETTER II. 

Deeming myself not pure enough to initiate so pure a heart, 
I invoke to her trance those fairest and most tender inhabi- 
tants of space that have furnished to poetry, which is the 
instinctive guess into creation, the ideas of the Glendoveer and 
Sylph. And these were less pure than her own thoughts, and 
less tender than her own love ! They could not raise her 
* above her human heart, for that has a heaven of its own. 


I have just looked on her in sleep, — I have heard her 
breathe my name. Alas ! that which is so sweet to others- 
has its bitterness to me ; for I think how soon the time may. 
come when that sleep will be without a dream, — when the 
heart that dictates the name will be cold, and the lips that 
utter it be dumb. What a twofold shape there is in love ! If 
we examine it coarsely, — if we look but on its fleshy ties, its. 
enjoyments of a moment, its turbulent fever and its dull 
reaction, — how strange it seems that this passion should be 
the supreme mover of the world ; that it is this which has, 
dictated the greatest sacrifices, and influenced all societies and 
all times ; that to this the loftiest and loveliest genius has 
ever consecrated its devotion ; that, but for love, there were 
no civilization, no music, no poetry, no beauty, no life 
beyond the brute’s. 

But examine it in its heavenlier shape, — in its utter abne- 
gation of self ; in its intimate connection with all that is most 
delicate and subtle in the spirit, — its power above all that is 
sordid in existence ; its mastery over the idols of the baser 
worship ; its ability to create a palace of the cottage, an oasis 
in the desert, a summer in the Iceland, — where it breathes, 
and fertilizes, and glows ; and the wonder rather becomes how 


Z AN ONI. 


325 


80 few regard it in its holiest nature. What the sensual call 
its enjoyments, are the least of its joys. True love is less a 
passion than a symbol. Mejnour, shall the time come when I 
can speak to thee of Viola as a thing that was ? 


EXTRACT FROM LETTER III, 

Knowest thou that of late I have sometimes asked myself, 

Is there no guilt in the knowledge that has so divided us 
from our race ? It is true that the higher we ascend the 
more hateful seem to us the vices of the short-lived creepers of 
the earth, — the more the sense of the goodness of the All- 
good penetrates and suffuses us, and the more immediately 
does our happiness seem to emanate from him. But, on the 
other hand, how many virtues must lie dead in those who live 
in the world of death, and refuse to die! Is not this sublime 
egotism, this state of abstraction and reverie, — this self- 
wrapped and self-dependent majesty of existence, a resignation 
of that nobility which incorporates our own welfare, our joys, 
our hopes, our fears with others ? To live on in no dread of 
foes, undegraded by infirmity, secure through the cares, and 
free from the disease of flesh, is a spectacle that captivates our 
pride. And yet dost thou not more admire him who dies 
for another ? Since I have loved her, Mejnour, it seems 
almost cowardice to elude the grave which devours the hearts 
that wrap us in their folds. I feel it, — the earth grows upon 
my spirit. Thou wert right; eternal age, serene and passion- 
less, is a happier boon than eternal youth, with its yearnings 
and desires. Until we can be all spirit, the tranquillity of 
solitude must be indifference. 


EXTRACTS FROM LETTER IV. 

I have received thy communication. What 1 is it so ? Has 
thy pupil disappointed thee ? Alas, poor pupil ! But — 


326 


ZANONL 


(Here follow comments on those passages in Glyndon’s 
life already known to the reader, or about to be made so, 
with earnest adjurations to Mejnour to watch yet over 
the fate of his scholar.) 

But I cherish the same desire, with a warmer heart. My 
pupil! how the terrors that shall encompass thine ordeal warn 
me from the task ! Once more I will seek the Son of Light. 


Yes; Adon-Ai, long deaf to my call, at last has descended to 
my vision, and left behind him the glory of his presence in 
the shape of Hope. Oh, not impossible, Viola, — not impos- 
sible, that we yet may be united, soul with soul ! 

EXTRACT FROM LETTER V. — {Many months after the last.) 

Mejnour, awake from thine apathy, — rejoice ! A new soul 
will be born to the world, — a new soul that shall call me 
father. Ah, if they for whom exist all the occupations and 
resources of human life, — if they can thrill with exquisite 
emotion at the thought of hailing again their owm childhood 
in the faces of their children ; if in that birth they are born 
once more into the holy Innocence which is the first state of 
existence ; if they can feel that on man devolves almost an 
angel’s duty, when he has a life to guide from the cradle, and 
a soul to nurture for the heaven, — w'hat to me must be the 
rapture to welcome an inheritor of all the gifts which double 
themselves in being shared ! How sweet the power to watch, 
and to guard, — to instil the knowdedge, to avert the evil, and 
to guide back the river of life in a richer and broader and 
deeper stream to the paradise from which it flows ! And 
beside that river our souls shall meet, sweet mother. Our 
child shall supply the sympathy that fails as yet; and what 
shape shall haunt thee, what terror shall dismay, when thy 
initiation is beside the cradle of thy child ! 


ZANONI. 


327 


CHAPTEE XI. 

They thus beguile the way 
Untill the blustring storme is overblowne, 

When weening to returne whence they did stray, 

They cannot finde that path which first was showne, 

But wander to and fro in waies unknowne. 

Spenser’s Faerie Queene, book i. canto i. st. x. 

Yes, Viola, thou art another being than when, by the 
threshold of thy Italian home, thou didst follow thy dim 
fancies through the Land of Shadow ; or when thou didst 
vainly seek to give voice to an ideal beauty, on the 
hoards where illusion counterfeits earth and heaven for 
an hour, till the weary sense, awaking, sees hut the 
tinsel and the scene-shifter. Thy spirit reposes in its 
own happiness. Its wanderings have found a goal. In 
a moment there often dwells the sense of eternity; for 
when profoundly happy, we know that it is impossible to 
die. Whenever the soul feels itself it feels everlasting 
life. 

The initiation is deferred, — thy days and nights are 
left to no other visions than those with which a contented 
heart enchants a guileless fancy. Glendoveers and Sylphs, 
pardon me if I question whether those visions are not 
lovelier than yourselves. 

They stand by the beach, and see the sun sinking 
into the sea. How long now have they dwelt on that 
island ? What matters ! — it may be months, or years, 
— what matters ! Why should I, or they, keep account 
of that happy time ? As in the dream of a moment ages 


328 


ZANONI. 


may seem to pass, so shall we measure transport or woe, 

— by the length of the dream, or the number of emotions 
that the dream involves ? 

The sun sinks slowly down; the air is arid and op- 
pressive ; on the sea, the stately vessel lies motionless ; 
on the shore, no leaf trembles on the trees. 

Viola drew nearer to Zanoni. A presentiment she 
could not define made her heart heat more quickly ; and, 
looking into his face, she was struck with its expression : 
it was anxious, abstracted, perturbed. “ This stillness 
awes me, ” she whispered. 

Zanoni did not seem to hear her. He muttered to 
himself, and his eyes gazed round restlessly. She knew 
not why, hut that gaze, which seemed to pierce into 
space, — that muttered voice in some foreign language, 

— revived dimly her earlier superstitions. She was 
more fearful since the hour when she knew that she was 
to be a mother. Strange crisis in the life of woman, 
and in her love ! Something yet unborn begins already 
to divide her heart with that which had been before its 
only monarch. 

“ Look on me, Zanoni, ” she said, pressing his hand. 

He turned : “ Thou art pale, Viola ; thy hand 

trembles! ” 

“ It is true. I feel as if some enemy were creeping 
near us. ” 

“ And the instinct deceives thee not. An enemy is 
indeed at hand. I see it through the heavy air ; I hear 
it through the silence; the Ghostly One, — the 
Destroyer, the Pestilence! Ah, seest thou how the 
leaves swarm with insects, only by an effort visible to 
the eye. They follow the breath of the plague ! ” As 
bespoke, a bird fell from the boughs at Viola’s feet; it 
fluttered, it writhed an instant, and was dead. 


ZANONI. 


329 


“ Oh, Viola ! ” cried Zanoni, passionately, “ that is 
death. Dost thou not fear to die ? ” 

“ To leave thee 1 Ah, yes ! ” 

“ And if I could teach thee how Death may be defied ; 
if I could arrest for thy youth the course of time; if I 
could — ” 

He paused abruptly, for Viola’s eyes spoke only 
terror; her cheek and lips were pale. 

“ Speak not thus, — look not thus, ” she said, recoiling 
from him. “ You dismay me. Ah, speak not thus, or I 
should tremble, — no, not for myself, but for thy child. ” 
“Thy child! But wouldst thou reject for thy child 
the same glorious boon ? ” 

“ Zanoni! ” 

“ Well! ” 

“ The sun has sunk from our eyes, but to rise on those 
of others. To disappear from this world is to live in the 
world afar. Oh, lover, — oh, husband ! ” she continued, 
with sudden energy, “ tell me that thou didst but jest, — 
that thou didst but trifie with my folly ! There is less 
terror in the pestilence than in thy words. ” 

Zanoni’s brow darkened; he looked at her in silence 
for some moments, and then said, almost severely, — 

“ What hast thou known of me to distrust ? ” 

“ Oh, pardon, pardon ! — nothing ! ” cried Viola, 
throwing herself on his breast, and bursting into tears. 
“ I will not believe even thine own words, if they seem 
to wrong thee! ” He kissed the tears from her eyes, but 
made no answer. 

“ And ah ! ” she resumed, with an enchanting and 
child-like smile, “ if thou wouldst give me a charm against 
the pestilence ! see, I will take it from thee. ” And she 
laid her hand on a small, antique amulet that he wore on 
his breast. 


330 


ZANONI. 


“ Thou knowest how often this has made me jealous of 
the past; surely some love-gift, Zanoni? But no, thou 
didst not love the giver as thou dost me. Shall I steal 
thine amulet ? ” 

“Infant!” said Zanoni, tenderly; “she who placed 
this round my neck deemed it indeed a charm, for she 
had superstitions like thyself; but to me it is more than 
the wizard’s spell, — it is the relic of a sweet vanished 
time when none who loved me could distrust.” 

He said these words in a tone of such melancholy 
reproach that it went to the heart of Viola ; but the tone 
changed into a solemnity which chilled back the gush of 
her feelings as he resumed ; “ And this, Viola, one day, 
perhaps, I will transfer from my breast to thine ; yes, 
whenever thou shalt comprehend me better, — whenever 
the laws of our being shall he the same! ” 

He moved on gently. They returned slowly home; 
but fear still was in the heart of Viola, though she 
strove to shake it off. Italian and Catholic she was, with 
all the superstitions of land and sect. She stole to her 
chamber and prayed before a little relic of San Gennaro, 
which the priest of her house had given to her in child- 
hood, and which had accompanied her in all her wander- 
ings. She had never deemed it possible to part with 
it before. How, if there was a charm against the pesti- 
lence, did she fear the pestilence for herself ? The next 
morning, when he awoke, Zanoni found the relic of the 
saint suspended with his mystic amulet round his neck. 

“ Ah ! thou wilt have nothing to fear from the pesti- 
lence now,” said Viola, between tears and smiles; “and 
when thou wouldst talk to me again as thou didst last 
night, the saint shall rebuke thee.” 

Well, Zanoni, can there ever indeed be commune of 
thought and spirit, except with equals ? 


ZANONL SSI 

Yes, the plague broke out, — the island home must 
be abandoned. Mighty Seer, thou hast no power to save 
those ivhom thou lovest f Farewell, thou bridal roof ! — 
sweet resting-place from care, farewell ! Climates as soft 
may greet ye, 0 lovers, — skies as serene, and waters as^ 
blue and calm ; hut that time, — can it ever more^ 
return ? Who shall say that the heart does not change 
with the scene, — the place where we first dwelt 
with the beloved one? Every spot there has so many 
memories which the place only can recall. The past that^ 
haunts it seems to command such constancy in the 
future. If a thought less kind, less trustful, enter 
within us, the sight of a tree under which a vow has been 
exchanged, a tear has been kissed away, restores ‘us 
again to the hours of the first divine illusion. But in a 
home where nothing speaks of the first nuptials, where 
there is no eloquence of association, no holy burial-places 
of emotions, whose ghosts are angels ! — yes, who that 
has gone through the sad history of affection will tell us 
that the heart changes not with the scene ! Blow fair, ye 
favoring winds; cheerily swell, ye sails; away from the 
land where death has come to snatch the sceptre of Love ! 
The shores glide by; new coasts succeed to the green 
hills and orange-groves of the Bridal Isle. From afar 
now gleam in the moonlight the columns, yet extant, of 
a temple which the Athenian dedicated to wisdom ; and, 
standing on the hark that bounded on in the freshening 
gale, the votary who had survived the goddess murmured 
to himself, — 

“ Has the wisdom of ages brought me no happier hours 
than those common to the shepherd and the herdsman, 
with no world beyond their village, no aspiration 
beyond the kiss and the smile of home ? ” 

And the moon, resting alike over the ruins of the 


332 


ZANONI. 


temple of the departed creed, over the hut of the 
living peasant, over the immemorial mountain-top, and 
the perishable herbage that clothed its sides, seemed to 
smile back its answer of calm disdain to the being who, 
perchance, might have seen the temple built, and who, 
in his inscrutable existence, might behold the mountain 
shattered from its base. 


BOOK V. 


THE EFFECTS OF THE ELIXIR. 


CHAPTER I. 

Zwei Seelen wohnen, ach ! in meiner Brust. 

Was stehst du so, und blickst erstaunt hinaus '? ^ 

Faust. 

It will be remembered that we left Master Paolo by the 
bedside of Glyndon; and as, waking from that profound 
slumber, the recollections of the past night came horribly 
back to his mind, the Englishman uttered a cry, and 
covered his face with his hands. 

“ Good morrow. Excellency ! ” said Paolo, gayly. 
“ Corpo di Bacco, you have slept soundly ! ” 

The sound of this man’s voice, so lusty, ringing, and 
healthful, served to scatter before it the phantasma that 
yet haunted Glyndon’s memory. 

He rose erect in his bed. “ And where did you find 
me ? Why are you here ? ” 

“ Where did I find you ! ” repeated Paolo, in surprise, 
— “ in your bed, to be sure. Why am I here ! — because 
the Padrone bade me await your waking, and attend 
your commands.” 

1 Two souls dwell, alas ! in my breast. 

Why standest thou so, and lookest out astonished ^ 


334 


ZANONI. 


“ The Padrone, Mejnour! — is he arrived? ” 

“ Arrived and departed, signor. He has left this 
letter for you.” 

“ Give it me, and wait w'ithout till I am dressed. ” 

“ At your service. I have bespoke an excellent 
breakfast: you must be hungry. I am a very tolerable 
cook; a monk’s son ought to be! You will be startled 
at my genius in the dressing’ of fish. My singing, I 
trust, will not disturb you. I always sing while I pre- 
pare a salad; it harmonizes the ingredients.” And 
slinging his carbine over his shoulder, Paolo sauntered 
from the room, and closed the door. 

Glyndon was already deep in the contents of the 
following letter ; — 

“ When I first receiv’^ed thee as my pupil, I promised 
Zanoni, if convinced by thy first trials that thou couldst but 
swell, not the number of our order, but the list of the victims 
who have aspired to it in vain, I would not rear thee to thine 
own wretchedness and doom, — I would dismiss thee back to 
the world. I fulfil my promise. Thine ordeal has been the 
easiest that neophyte ever knew. I asked for nothing but 
abstinence from the sensual, and a brief experiment of thy 
patience and thy faith. Go back to thine own world ; thou 
hast no nature to aspire to ours ! 

“ It was I who prepared Paolo to receive thee at the revel. 
It was I who instigated the old beggar to ask thee for alms. 
It was I who left open the book that thou couldst not read 
without violating my command. Well, thou hast seen what 
nwaits thee at the threshold of knowledge. Thou hast con- 
fronted the first foe that menaces him whom the senses yet 
grasp and inthrall. Dost thou wonder that I close upon thee 
the gates forever ? Dost thou not comprehend, at last, that it 
needs a soul tempered and purified and raised, not by external 
spells, but by its own sublimity and valor, to pass the thres- 
hold and disdain the foe? Wretch! all my silence avails 


ZANONI. 


335 


nothing for the rash, for the sensual, — for him who desires 
our secrets but to pollute them to gross enjoyments and selfish 
vice. How have the impostors and sorcerers of the earlier 
times perished by their very attempt to penetrate the mysteries 
that should purify, and not deprave ! The}’’ have boasted of 
the Philosopher’s Stone, and died in rags ; of the immortal 
elixir, and sunk to their grave, gray before their time. Legends 
tell you that the fiend rent them into fragments. Yes ; the 
fiend of their own unholy desires and criminal designs ! 
What they coveted, thou covetest ; and if thou hadst the 
wings of a seraph thou couldst soar not from the slough of thy 
mortality. Thy desire for knowledge, but petulant presump- 
tion; thy thirst for happiness, but the diseased longing for the 
unclean and muddied waters of corporeal pleasure ; thy very 
love, -which usually elevates even the mean, a passion that 
calculates treason amidst the first glow of lust. Thou one of 
us ; thou a brother of the August Order ; thou an Aspirant 
to the Stars that shine in the Shemaia of the Chaldean lore ! 
The eagle can raise but the eaglet to the sun. I abandon thee 
to thy twilight ! 

“ But, alas for thee, disobedient and profane! thou hast 
inhaled the elixir ; thou hast attracted to thy presence a ghastly 
and remorseless foe. Thou thyself must exorcise the phantom 
thou hast raised. Thou must return to the world ; but not 
without punishment and strong effort canst thou regain the 
calm and the joy of the life thou hast left behind. This, for 
thy comfort, will I tell thee : he who has drawn into his 
frame even so little of the volatile and vital energy of the 
aerial juices as thyself, has awakened faculties that cannot 
sleep, — faculties that may yet, with patient humility, with 
sound faith, and the courage that is not of the body like thine, 
but of the resolute and virtuous mind, attain, if not to the 
knowledge that reigns above, to high achievement in the 
career of men. Thou wilt find the restless influence in all 
that thou wouldst undertake. Thy heart, amidst vulgar joys 
will aspire to something holier ; thy ambition, amidst coarse 
excitement, to something beyond thy reach. But deem not 
that this of itself will sutfice for glory. Equally may the 


336 


ZANONI. 


craving lead thee to shame and guilt. It is but an imperfect 
and new-born energy which will not suffer thee to repose. 
As thou directest it, must thou believe it to be the emanation 
of thine evil genius or thy good. 

“ But woe to thee ! insect meshed in the web in which thou 
hast entangled limbs and wings ! Thou hast not only inhaled 
the elixir, thou hast conjured the spectre ; of all the tribes of 
the space, no foe is so malignant to man, — and thou hast 
lifted the veil from thy gaze. I cannot restore to thee the 
happy dimness of thy vision. Know, at least, that all of us — 
the highest and the wisest — who have, in sober truth, passed 
beyond the threshold, have had, as our first fearful task, to 
master and subdue its grisly and appalling guardian. Know 
that thou canst deliver thyself from those livid eyes, — know 
that, while they haunt, they cannot harm, if thou resistest the 
thoughts to which they tempt, and the horror they engendey. 
Dread them most when thou beholdest them not. And thus, son 
of the worm, we part! All that I can tell thee to encourage, 
yet to warn and to guide, I have told thee in these lines. Not 
from me, from thyself has come the gloomy trial from which 
I yet trust thou wilt emerge into peace. Type of the knowl- 
edge that I serve, I withhold no lesson from the pure aspirant; 
I am a dark enigma to the general seeker. As man’s only 
indestructible possession is his memory, so it is not in mine 
art to crumble into matter* the immaterial thoughts that 
have sprung up within thy breast. The tyro might shatter 
this castle to the dust, and topple down the mountain to the 
plain. The master has no power to say, ‘Exist no more,’ to 
one THOUGHT that his knowledge has inspired. Thou mayst 
change the thought into new forms ; thou mayst rarefy and 
sublimate it into a finer spirit, — but thou canst not annihilate 
that which has no home but in the memory, no substance 
but the idea. Every thought is a. soul I Vainly, therefore, 
would I or thou undo the past, or restore to thee the gay 
blindness of thy youth. Thou must endure the influence of 
the elixir thou hast inhaled ; thou must wrestle with the 
spectre thou hast invoked I ” 


ZANONI. 


337 


The letter fell from Glyndon’s hand. A sort of 
stupor succeeded to the various emotions which had 
chased each other in the perusal, — a stupor resembling 
that which follows the sudden destruction of any 
ardent and long-nursed hope in the human heart, 
whether it he of love, of avarice, of ambition. The 
loftier world for which he had so thirsted, sacrificed, 
and toiled, was closed upon him “ forever,” and by 
his own faults of rashness and presumption. But Glyn- 
don’s was not of that nature which submits long to con- 
demn itself. His indignation began to kindle against 
Mejnour, who owned he had tempted, and who now 
abandoned him, — abandoned him to the presence of a 
spectre. The mystic’s reproaches stung rather than 
humbled him. What crime had he committed to deserve 
language so harsh and disdainful ? Was it so deep a 
debasement to feel pleasure in the smile and the eyes of 
Fillide? Had not-Zanoni himself confessed love for 
Viola; had he not fled with her as his companion? 
Glyndon never paused to consider if there are no dis- 
tinctions between one kind of love and another. Where, 
too, was the great offence of yielding to a temptation 
which only existed for the brave ? Had not the mystic 
volume which Mejnour had purposely left open, bid him 
but “ Beware of fear”? Was not, then, every wilful 
provocative held out to the strongest influences of the 
human mind, in the prohibition to enter the chamber. 
In the possession of the key which excited his curi- 
osity, in the volume which seemed to dictate the mode 
by which the curiosity was to be gratified ? As rapidly 
these thoughts passed over him, he began to consider the 
whole conduct of Mejnour either as a perfidious design 
to entrap him to his own misery, or as the trick of an 
impostor, who knew that he could not realize the great 


338 


ZANONI. 


professions he had made. On glancing again over the 
more mysterious threats and warnings in Mejnour’s 
letter, they seemed to assume the language of mere 
parable and allegory, — the jargon of the Platonists and 
Pythagoreans. By little and little, he began to consider 
that the very spectra he had seen — even that one phan- 
tom so horrid in its aspect — were but tl\e delusions 
which Mejnour’s science had enabled him to raise. 
The healthful sunlight, filling up every cranny in his 
chamber, seemed to laugh away the terrors of the past 
night. His pride and his resentment nerved his 
habitual courage; and when, having hastily dressed 
himself, he rejoined Paolo, it was with a flushed cheek 
and a haughty step. 

“So, Paolo,” said he, “the Padrone, as you call 
him, told you to expect and welcome me at' your village 
feast ? ” 

“ He did so by a message from a wretched old 
cripple. This surprised me at the time, for I thought 
he was far distant; but these great philosophers make 
a joke of two or three hundred leagues.” 

“ Why did you not tell me you had heard from 
Mejnour? ” 

“ Because the old cripple forbade me.” 

“ Did you not see the man afterwards during the 
dance 1 ” 

“ No, Excellency. ” 

“ Humph! ” 

“Allow me to serve you,” said Paolo, piling Glyn- 
don’s plate, and then filling his glass. “ I wish, signor, 
now the Padrone is gone, — not,” added Paolo, as he 
cast rather a frightened and suspicious glance round 
the room, “ that I mean to say anything disrespectful of 
iiim, — I wish, I say, now that he is gone, that you 


ZANONI. 


339 


would take pity on yourself, and ask your own heart 
what your youth was meant for? Not to bury yourself 
alive in these old ruins, and endanger body and soul by 
studies which I am sure no saint could approve of. ” 

‘‘Are the saints so partial, then, to your own occupa^ 
tions, Master Paolo ? ” 

“Why,” answered the bandit, a little confused, “a 
gentleman with plenty of pistoles in his purse need, 
not, of necessity, make it his profession to take away 
the pistoles of other people! It is a different thing for 
us poor rogues. After all, too, I always devote a tithe 
of my gains to the Virgin ; and I share the rest chari- 
tably with the poor. But eat, drink, enjoy yourself; 
be absolved by your confessor for any little peccadilloes 
and don’t run too long scores at a time, — that ’s my- 
advice. Your health. Excellency! Pshaw, signor, 
fasting, except on the days prescribed to a good Cath^ 
olic, only engenders phantoms.” 

“Phantoms!” 

“Yes; the devil always tempts the empty stomach. 
To covet, to hate, to thieve, to rob, and to murder, — 
these are the natural desires of a man who is famishing. 
With a full belly, signor, we are at peace with all the 
world. That’s right; you like the partridge ! Cospetto! 
when I myself have passed two or three days in the 
mountains, with nothing from sunset to sunrise but a 
black crust and an onion, I grow as fierce as a wolf. 
That ’s not the worst, too. In these times I see little 
imps dancing before me. Oh, yes; fasting is as full 
of spectres as a field of battle.” 

Glyndon thought there was some sound philosophy 
in the reasoning of his companion; and certainly the 
more he ate and drank, the more the recollection of the 
past night and of Mejnour’s desertion faded from his 


340 


ZANONI. 


mind. The casement was open, the breeze blew, the 
sun shone, — all Nature was merry ; and merry as Nature 
herself grew Maestro Paolo. He talked of adventures, 
of travel, of women, with a hearty gusto that had its 
infection. But Glyndon listened yet more complacently 
when Paolo turned with an arch smile to praises of the 
eye, the teeth, the ankles, and the shape of the hand- 
some Pillide. 

This man, indeed, seemed the very personation of 
animal sensual life. He would have been to Faust a 
more dangerous tempter than Mephistopheles. There 
was no sneer on his lip at the pleasures which animated 
his voice. To one awaking to a sense of the vanities in 
knowledge, this reckless ignorant joyousness of temper 
was a worse corrupter than all the icy mockeries of a 
learned Fiend. But when Paolo took his leave, with a 
promise to return the next day, the mind of the English- 
man again settled back to a graver and more thoughtful 
mood. The elixir seemed, in truth, to have left the 
refining effects Mejnour had ascribed to it. As Glyn- 
don paced to and fro the solitary corridor, or, pausing, 
gazed upon the extended and glorious scenery that 
stretched below, high thoughts of enterprise and ambition 

— bright visions of glory — passed in rapid succession 
through his soul. 

“Mejnour denies me his science. Well,” said the 
painter, proudly, “ he has not robbed me of my art.” 

What! Clarence Glyndon, dost thou return to that 
from which thy career commenced? Was Zanoni right 
after all ? 

He found himself in the chamber of the mystic ; not 
a vessel, — not an herb! the solemn volume is vanished, 

— the elixir shall sparkle for him no more ! But still 
in the room itself seems to linger the atmosphere of a 


ZANONI. 


341 


charm. Faster and fiercer it burns within thee, the 
desire to achieve, to create! Thou longest for a life 
beyond the sensual ! — hut the life that is permitted to 
all genius, — that which breathes through the immortal 
work, and endures in the imperishable name. 

Where are the implements for thine art ? Tush ! — 
when did the true workman ever fail to find his tools ? 
Thou art again in thine own chamber, — the white wall 
thy canvas, a fragment of charcoal for thy pencil. They 
suffice, at least, to give outline to the conception that 
may otherwise vanish with the morrow. 

The idea that thus excited the imagination of the 
artist was unquestionably noble and august. It was 
derived from that Egyptian ceremonial which Diodorus 
has recorded, — the Judgment of the Dead by the Liv- 
ing: ^ when the corpse, duly embalmed, is placed by the 
margin of the Acherusian Lake ; and before it may be 
consigned to the bark which is to hear it across the 
waters to its final resting-place, it is permitted to the 
appointed judges to hear all accusations of the past life 
of the deceased, and, if proved, to deprive the corpse 
of the rites of sepulture. 

Unconsciously to himself, it was Mejnour’s descrip- 
tion of this custom, which he had illustrated by several 
anecdotes not to he found in hooks, that now suggested 
the design to the artist, and gave it reality and force. 
He supposed a powerful and guilty king whom in life 
scarce a whisper had dared to arraign, hut against whom, 
now the breath was gone, came the slave from his 
fetters, the mutilated victim from his dungeon, livid 
and squalid as if dead themselves, invoking with parched 
lips the justice that outlives the grave. 

Strange fervor this, 0 artist! breaking suddenly forth 
1 Diod., lib. i. 


342 


ZANONI. 


from the mists and darkness which the occult science 
had spread so long over thy fancies, — strange that the 
reaction of the night’s terror and the day’s disappoint- 
ment should be hack to thine holy art! Oh, how freely 
goes the bold hand over the large outline! How, 
despite those rude materials, speaks forth no more 
the pupil, hut the master! Fresh yet from the glori- 
ous elixir, how thou givest to thy creatures the finer 
life denied to thyself! — some power not thine own 
writes the grand symbols on the wall. Behind rises the 
mighty sepulchre, on the building of which repose to 
the dead the lives of thousands had been consumed. 
There sit in a semicircle the solemn judges. Black and 
sluggish flows the lake. There lies the mummied and 
royal dead. Dost thou quail at the frown on his life- 
like brow? Ha! — bravely done, O artist! — up rise 
the haggard forms !^ — pale speak the ghastly faces! 
Shall not Humanity, after death avenge itself on Power? 
Thy conception, Clarence Glyndon, is a sublime truth; 
thy design promises renown to genius. Better this 
magic than the charms of the volume and the vessel. 
Hour after hour has gone : thou hast lighted the lamp ; 
night sees thee yet at thy labor. Merciful Heaven! 
what chills the atmosphere; why does the lamp grow 
wan; why does thy hair bristle? There! — there! — 
there! at the casement! It gazes on thee, the dark, 
mantled, loathsome thing! There, with their devilish 
mockery and hateful craft, glare on thee those horrid 
eyes ! 

He stood and gazed,— it was no delusion. It spoke 
not, moved not, till, unable to bear longer that 
steady and burning look, he covered his face with his 
hands. With a start, with a thrill, he removed them; 
he felt the nearer presence of the nameless. There it 


ZANONI. 


343 


cowered on the floor beside his design; and lo! the 
figures seemed to start from the wall ! Those pale accus- 
ing figures, the shapes he himself had raised, frowned 
at him, and gibbered. With a violent effort that con- 
vulsed his whole being, and bathed his body in the 
sweat of agony, the young man mastered his horror. 
He strode towards the phantom; he endured its eyes; 
he accosted it with a steady voice; he demanded its 
purpose and defied its power. 

And then, as a wind from a charnel, was heard its 
voice. What it said, what revealed, it is forbidden 
the lips to repeat, the hand to record. Nothing save 
the subtle life that yet animated the frame to which 
the inhalations of the elixir had given vigor and energy 
beyond the strength of the strongest, could have sur- 
vived that awful hour. Better to wake in the catacombs 
and see the buried rise from their cerements, and hear 
the ghouls, in their horrid orgies, amongst the festering 
ghastliness of corruption, than to front those features 
when the veil was lifted, and listen to that whispered 
voice ! 

The next day Glyndon fled from the ruined castle. 
With what hopes of starry light had he crossed the 
threshold; with what memories to shudder evermore at 
the darkness did he look back at the frown of its time- 
worn towers! 


344 


ZANONL 


CHAPTER II. 

Faust. Wohin soil es nun gehn ? 

Mephist. Wohin es Dir gefallt. 

Wir sehn die kleine, dann die grosse Welt.i 

Faust. 

Draw your chair to the fireside, brush clean the 
hearth, and trim the lights. Oh, home of sleekness, 
order, substance, comfort! Oh, excellent thing art 
thou, Matter of Pact! 

It is some time after the date of the last chapter. 
Here we are, not in moonlit islands or mouldering 
castles, but in a room twenty-six feet by twenty-two, 
— well carpeted, well cushioned, solid arm-chairs and 
eight such bad pictures, in such fine frames, upon the 
walls! Thomas Mervale, Esq., merchant, of London, 
you are an enviable dog! 

It was the easiest thing in the world for Mervale, on 
returning from his Continental episode of life, to settle 
down to his desk, — his heart had been always there. 
The death of his father gave him, as a birthright, a high 
position in a respectable though second-rate firm. To 
make this establishment first-rate was an honorable 
ambition, — it was his! He had lately married, not 
entirely for money, — no! he was worldly rather than 
mercenary. He had no romantic ideas of love ; but he 
was too sensible a man not to know that a 'wife should 

^ F. Whither go now ! 

M. Whither it pleases thee. 

We see the small world, then the great. 


ZANONI. 


345 


be a companion, — not merely a speculation. He did 
not care for beauty and genius, but he liked health and 
good temper, and a certain proportion of useful under- 
standing. He chose a wife from his reason, not his 
heart, and a very good choice he made. Mrs. Mervale 
was an excellent young woman, — bustling, managing, 
economical, but affectionate and good. She had a will 
of her own, but was no shrew. She had a great notion 
of the rights of a wife, and a strong perception of 
the qualities that insure comfort. She would never 
have forgiven her husband, had she found him guilty 
of the most passing fancy for another; but, in return, 
she had the most admirable sense of propriety herself. 
She held in abhorrence all levity, all flirtation, all 
coquetry, — small vices which often ruin domestic hap- 
piness, but which a giddy nature incurs without consid- 
eration. But she did not think it right to love a hus- 
band over much. She left a surplus of affection, for all 
her relations, all her friends, some of her acquaint- 
ances, and the possibility of a second marriage, should 
any accident happen to Mr. M. She kept a good table, 
for it suited their station; and her temper was consid- 
ered even, though firm; but she could say a sharp thing 
or two, if Mr. Mervale was not punctual to a moment. 
She was very particular that he should change his shoes 
on coming home, — the carpets were new and expensive. 
She was not sulky, nor passionate, — Heaven bless her 
for that! — but when displeased she showed it, adminis- 
tered a dignified rebuke, alluded to her own virtues, 
to her uncle who was an admiral, and to the thirty 
thousand pounds which she had brought to the object 
of her choice. But as Mr. Mervale was a good-humored 
man, owned his faults, and subscribed to her excellence, 
the displeasure was soon over. 


346 


ZANONI. 


Every household has its little disagreements, none 
fewer than that of Mr. and Mrs. Mervale. Mrs. Mervale, 
without being improperly fond of dress, paid due atten- 
tion to it. She was never seen out of her chamber with 
papers in her hair, nor in that worst of dis-illusions, — 
a morning wrapper. At half-past eight every morning 
Mrs. Mervale was dressed for the day, — that is, till she 
re-dressed for dinner, — her stays well laced, her cap 
prim, her gowns, winter and summer, of a thick, hand- 
some silk. Ladies at that time wore very short waists ; 
so did Mrs. Mervale. Her morning ornaments were a 
thick, gold chain, to which was suspended a gold watch, 
none of those fragile dwarfs of mechanism that look so 
pretty and go so ill, but a handsome repeater which 
chronicled Father Time to a moment; also a mosaic 
brooch; also a miniature of her uncle, the admiral, set 
in a bracelet. For the evening she had two handsome 
sets, — necklace, earrings, and bracelets complete, — one 
of amethysts, the other topazes. With these, her costume 
for the most part was a gold-colored satin and a turban, 
in which last her picture had been taken. Mrs. Mervale 
had an' aquiline nose, good teeth, fair hair, and light 
eyelashes, rather a high complexion, what is generally 
called a fine bust ; full cheeks ; large useful feet made 
for walking; large, white hands with filbert nails, on 
which not a speck of dust had, even in childhood, ever 
been known to alight. She looked a little older than 
she really was; but that might arise from a certain air 
of dignity and the aforesaid aquiline nose. She gener- 
ally wore short mittens. She never read any poetry but 
Goldsmith’s and Cowper’s. She was not amused by 
novels, though she had no prejudice against them. She 
liked a play and a pantomime, with a slight supper 
afterwards. She did not like concerts nor operas. At 


ZANONI. 


347 


the beginning of the winter she selected some hook to 
read, and 'some piece of work to commence. The two 
lasted her till the spring, when, though she continued 
to work, she left off reading. Her favorite study was 
history, which she read through the medium of Dr. 
Goldsmith. Her favorite author in the helles lettres 
was, of course, Dr. Johnson. A worthier woman, or 
one more respected, was not to be found, except in an 
epitaph ! 

It was an autumn night. Mr. and Mrs. Mervale, 
lately returned from an excursion to Weymouth, are in 
the drawing-room, — “ the dame sat on this side, the 
man sat on that.” 

' “ Yes, I assure you, my dear, that Glyndon, with all 
his eccentricities, was a very engaging, amiable fellow. 
You would certainly have liked him, — all the women 
did.” 

“ My dear Thomas, you will forgive the remark, — 
but that expression of yours, ‘ all the women ^ — ” 

“ I beg your pardon, — you are right. I meant to say 
that he was a general favorite with your charming sex.” 

" I understand, — rather a frivolous character.” 

“Frivolous! no, not exactly; a little unsteady, — - 
very odd, but certainly not frivolous; presumptuous and 
headstrong in character, but modest and shy in his 
manners, rather too much so, — just what you like. 
However, to return; I am seriously uneasy at the 
accounts I have heard of him to-day. He has been 
living, it seems, a very strange and irregular life, trav- 
elling from place to place, and must have spent already 
a great deal of money.” 

“ Apropos of money,” said Mrs. Mervale; “ I fear we 
must change our butcher; he is certainly in league 
with the cook.” 


348 


ZANONI. 


“ That is a pity; his beef is remarkably fine. These 
London servants are as had as the Carbonari; But, as 
I was saying, poor Glyndon — ” 

Here a knock was heard at the door. “ Bless me, ” 
said Mrs. Mervale, “it is past ten! Who can that 
possibly be ? ” 

“ Perhaps your uncle, the admiral,” said the husband, 
with a slight peevishness in his accent. “He gener- 
ally favors us about this hour. ” 

“ I hope, my love, that none of my relations are 
unwelcome visitors at your house. The admiral is a 
most entertaining man, and his fortune is entirely at his 
own disposal.” 

“No one I respect more, ” said Mr. Mervale, with 
emphasis. 

The servant threw open the door, and announced Mr. 
Glyndon. 

“ Mr. Glyndon ! — what an extraordinary — ” ex- 
claimed Mrs. Mervale; but before she could conclude 
the sentence, Glyndon was in the room. 

The two friends greeted each other with all the 
warmth of early recollection and long absence. An 
appropriate and proud presentation to Mrs. Mervale 
ensued; and Mrs. Mervale, with a dignified smile, and a 
furtive glance at his boots, bade her husband’s friend 
welcome to England. 

Glyndon was greatly altered since Mervale had seen 
him last. Though less than two years had elapsed since 
then, his fair complexion was more bronzed and manly. 
Deep lines of care, or thought, or dissipation, had 
replaced the smooth contour of happy youth. To a 
manner once gentle and polished had succeeded a certain 
recklessness of mien, tone, and bearing, which bespoke 
the habits of a society that cared little for the calm 


ZANONI. 


349 


decorums of conventional ease. Still a kind of wild 
nobleness, not before apparent in him, characterized his 
aspect, and gave something of dignity to the freedom of 
his language and gestures. 

“ So, then, you are settled, Mervale, — I need not ask 
you if you are happy. Worth, sense, wealth, character, 
and so fair a companion deserve happiness, and command 
it.” 

“Would you like some tea, Mr. Glyndon?” asked 
Mrs. Mervale, kindly. 

“ Thank you, — no. I propose a more convivial stim- 
ulus to my old friend. Wine, Mervale, — wine, eh ! — . 
or a bowl of old English punch. Your wife will excuse 
us, — we will make a night of it ! ” 

Mrs. Mervale drew back her chair, and tried not to 
look aghast. Glyndon did not give his friend time to 
reply. 

“ So at last I am in England, ” he said, looking round 
the room, with a slight sneer on his lips ; “ surely this 
sober air must have its influence ; surely here I shall be 
like the rest.” 

“ Have you been ill, Glyndon ? ” 

“ 111 ! yes. Humph ! you have a fine house. Does it 
contain a spare room for a solitary wanderer ? ” 

Mr. Mervale glanced at his wife, and his wife looked 
steadily on the carpet. “ Modest and shy in his manners, 
— rather too much so ! ” Mrs. Mervale was in the 
seventh heaven of indignation and amaze ! 

“ My dear ? ” said Mr. Mervale at last, meekly and 
interrogatingly. 

“ My dear ! ” returned Mrs. Mervale, innocently and 
sourly. 

“ We can make up a room for my old friend, Sarah ? ” 

The old friend had sunk back on his chair, and, 


350 


ZANONI. 


gazing intently on the fire, with his feet at ease upon 
the fender, seemed to have forgotten his question. 

Mrs. Mervale bit her lips, looked thoughtful, and at 
last coldly replied, “ Certainly, Mr. Mervale ; your 
friends do right to make themselves at home.” 

With that she lighted a candle, and moved majestically 
from the room. When she returned, the two friends 
had vanished into Mr. Mervale’s study. 

Twelve o’clock struck, ^ — one o’clock, two! Thrice 
had Mrs. Mervale sent into the room to know, — first, 
if they wanted anything ; secondly, if Mr. Glyndon slept 
on a mattress or feather-bed; thirdly, to inquire if Mr. 
Glyndon’s trunk, which he had brought with him,, 
should be unpacked. And to the answer to all these 
questions was added, in a loud voice from the visitor, 
— a voice that pierced from the kitchen to the attic, — ^ 
“ Another howl ! stronger, if you please, and be quick 
with it!” 

At last Mr. Mervale appeared in the conjugal cham« 
her, not penitent, nor apologetic, — no, not a hit of it. 
His eyes twinkled, his cheek flushed, his feet reeled; he 
sang, — Mr. Thomas Mervale positively sang ! 

“ Mr. Mervalei is it possible, sir — ” 

“ ‘ Old King Cole was a merry old soul — 

** Mr. Mervale ! sir! — leave me alone, sir ! ** 

“ ‘ And a merry old soul was he — 

“ What an example to the servants ! ” 

“ ‘ And he called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl— * ^ 
** If you don’t behave yourself, sir, I shall call — ” 

“ * Call for his fiddlers three 1 * 


ZANONI. 


351 


CHAPTER III. 

In der Welt weit 
Aus der Einsarakeit 
Wollen sie Dich locken.i 

Faust. 

The next morning, at breakfast, Mrs. Mervale looked as 
if all the wrongs of injured woman sat upon her brow. 
Mr. Mervale seemed the picture of remorseful guilt and 
avenging bile. He said little, except to complain of 
headache, and to request the eggs to be removed from 
the table. Clarence Glyndon — impervious, uncom 
scious, unailing, impenitent — was in noisy spirits, and 
talked for three. 

“ Poor Mervale ! be has lost the habit of good-fellow- 
ship, madam. Another night or two, and he will be 
himself again ! ” 

“ Sir, ” said Mrs. Mervale, launching a premeditated 
sentence with more than Johnsonian dignity, “ permit 
me to remind you that Mr. Mervale is now a married 
man, the destined father of a family, and the present 
master of a household.” 

“ Precisely the reasons why I envy him so much. I 
myself have a great mind to marry. Happiness is 
contagious. ” 

“ Ho you still take to painting? ” asked Mervale, lan- 
guidly, endeavoring to turn the tables on his guest. 

"‘Oh, no; I have adopted your advice. No art, no 
Ideal, — nothing loftier than Commonplace for me now. 
If I were to paint again, I positively think you would 

1 In the wide world, out of the solitude, will these allure thee. 


352 


ZANONI. 


purchase my pictures. Make haste and finish your 
breakfast, man; I wish to consult you. I have come to 
England to see after my affairs. My ambition is to 
make money ; your counsels and experience cannot fail 
to assist me here.” 

“ Ah, you were soon disenchanted of your Philoso- 
pher’s Stone! You must know, Sarah, that when I last 
left Glyndon, he was bent upon turning alchemist and 
magician.” 

“ You are witty to-day, Mr. Mervale.” 

Upon m}'’ honor it is true. I told you so before." 

Glyndon rose abruptly. 

“ Why revive those recollections of folly and presump- 
tion? Have 1 not said that I have returned to my 
native land to pursue the healthful avocations of my 
kind! Oh, yes! what so healthful, so noble, so fitted 
to our nature, as what you call the Practical Life ? If 
we have faculties, what is their use, but to sell them to 
advantage! Buy knowledge as we do our goods; buy 
it at the cheapest market, sell it at the dearest. Have 
you not breakfasted yet? ” 

The friends walked into the streets, and Mervale 
shrank from the irony with which Glyndon compli- 
mented him on his respectability, his station, his 
pursuits, his happy marriage, and his eight pictures in 
their handsome frames. Formerly the sober Mervale 
had commanded an influence over his friend; his had 
been the sarcasm; Glyndon’s the irresolute shame at 
his own peculiarities. Kow this position was reversed. 
There was a fierce earnestness in Glyndon’s altered tem- 
per which awed and silenced the quiet commonplace of 
his friend’s character. He seemed to take a malif^nant 

o 

delight in persuading himself that the sober life of the 
world was contemptible and base. 


ZANONI. 


353 


‘'Ah!” he exclaimed how right you were to tell 
me to marry respectably ; to have a solid position ; to 
live in decorous fear of the world and one’s wife; and 
to command the envy of the poor, the good opinion of 
the rich. You have practised what you preach. 
Delicious existence! The merchant’s desk and the cur- 
tain lecture! Ha! ha! Shall we have another night 
of it?” 

Mervale, embarrassed and irritated, turned the con- 
versation upon Glyndon’s affairs. He was surprised at 
the knowledge of the world which the artist seemed to 
have suddenly acquired, surprised still more at the 
acuteness and energy with which he spoke of the specu- 
lations most in vogue at the market. Yes; Glyndon 
was certainly in earnest: he desired to be rich and 
respectable, — and to make at least ten per cent for his 
money ! 

After spending some days with the merchant, during 
which time he contrived to disorganize all the mech- 
anism of the house, to turn night into day, harmony 
into discord, to drive poor Mrs. Mervale half-distracted, 
and to convince her husband that he was horribly hen- 
pecked, the ill-omened visitor left them as suddenly as 
he had arrived. He took a house of his own; he sought 
the society of persons of substance ; he devoted himself 
to the money-market; he seemed to have become a man 
of business ; his schemes were bold and colossal ; his 
calculations rapid and profound. He startled Mervale 
by his energy, and dazzled him by his success. Mervale 
began to envy him, — to be discontented with his own 
regular and slow gains. When Glyndon bought or sold 
in the funds, wealth rolled upon him like the tide of a 
sea ; what years of toil could not have done for him in 
art, a few months, by a succession of lucky chances, did 
23 


354 


ZANONI. 


for him in speculation. Suddenly, however, he relaxed 
his exertions ; new objects of ambition seemed to attract 
him. If he heard a drum in the streets, what glory 
like the soldier’s ? If a new poem were published, what 
renown like the poet’s? He began works in litera- 
ture, which promised great excellence, to throw them 
aside in disgust. All at once he abandoned the deco- 
rous and formal society he had courted; he joined him- 
self, with young and riotous associates; he plunged into 
the wildest excesses of the great city, where Gold reigns 
alike over Toil and Pleasure. Through all he carried 
with him a certain power and heat of soul. In all 
society he aspired to command, — in all pursuits to 
excel. Yet whatever the passion of the moment, the 
reaction was terrible in its gloom. He sank, at times, 
into the most profound and the darkest reveries. His 
fever was that of a mind that would escape memory, — 
his repose, that of a mind which the memory seizes 
again, and devours as a prey. Mervale now saw little 
of him; they shunned each other. Glyndon had no 
confidant, and no friend. 


ZANONL 


355 


CHAPTER IV. 

Ich fiihle Dich mir nahe ; 

Die Einsamkeit belebt ; 

Wie iiber seinen Welten 
Der Unsichtbare schwebt.^ 

Uhland. 

From this state of restlessness and agitation rather 
than continuous action, Glyndon was aroused by a 
visitor who seemed to exercise the most salutary influ- 
ence over him. His sister, an orphan with himself, 
had resided in the country with her aunt. In the early 
years of hope and home he had loved this girl, much 
younger than himself, with all a brother’s tenderness. 
On his return to England, he had seemed to forget her 
existence. She recalled herself to him on her aunt’s 
death by a touching and melancholy letter: she had 
how no home but his, — no dependence save on his 
affection ; he wept when he read it, and was impatient 
till Adela arrived. 

This girl, then about eighteen, concealed beneath a 
gentle and calm exterior much of the romance or enthu- 
siasm that had, at her own age, characterized her 
brother. But her enthusiasm was of a far purer order, 
and was restrained within proper bounds, partly by the 
sweetness of a very feminine nature, and partly by a 
strict and methodical education. She differed from him 

1 I feel thee near to me , 

The loneliness takes life, — 

As over its Avorld 
The Invisible hovers. 


856 


ZANONI. 


especially in a timidity of character which exceeded 
that usual at her age, hut which the habit of self- 
command concealed no less carefully than that timidity 
itself concealed the romance I have ascribed to her. 

Adela was not handsome: she had the complexion 
and the form of delicate health ; and too fine an organ- 
ization of the nerves rendered her susceptible to every 
impression that could influence the health of the frame 
through the sympathy of the mind. But as she never 
complained, and as the singular serenity of her manners 
seemed to betoken an equanimity of temperament which, 
with the vulgar, might have passed for indifference, 
her sufferings had so long been borne unnoticed that 
it ceased to be an effort to disguise them. Though, as 
I have said, not handsome, her countenance was inter- 
esting and pleasing; and there was that caressing kind-^ 
ness, that winning charm about her smile, her manners, 
her anxiety to please, to comfort, and to soothe which 
went at once to the heart, and made her lovely, — 
because so loving. 

Such was the sister whom Glyndon had so long neg- 
lected, and whom he now so cordially welcomed. Adela 
had passed many years a victim to the caprices, and a 
nurse to the maladies, of a selfish and exacting relation. 
The delicate and generous and respectful affection of her 
brother was no less new to her than delightful. He 
took pleasure in the happiness he created; he gradually 
weaned himself from other society; he felt the charm 
of home. It is not surprising, then, that this young 
creature, free and virgin from every more ardent attach- 
ment, concentrated all her grateful love on this cher- 
ished and protecting relative. Her study by day, her 
dream by night, was to repay him for his affection. She 
was proud of his talents, devoted to his welfare; the 


ZANONI. 


357 


smallest trifle that could interest him swelled in her 
eyes to the gravest affairs of life. In short, all the long- 
hoarded enthusiasm, which was her perilous and only 
heritage, she invested in this one object of her holy 
tenderness, her pure ambition. 

But in proportion as Glyndon shunned those excite- 
ments by which he had so long sought to occupy his 
time or distract his thoughts, the gloom of his calmer 
hours became deepe.r and more continuous. He ever 
and especially dreaded to be alone ; he could not bear his 
new companion to be absent from his eyes : he rode with 
her, walked with her, and it was with visible reluctance, 
which almost partook of horror, that he retired to rest 
at an hour when even revel grows fatigued. This 
gloom was not that which could be called by the soft 
name of melancholy, — it was far more intense ; it seemed 
rather like despair. Often after a silence as of death 
— so heavy, abstracted, motionless, did it appear — he 
would start abruptly, and cast hurried glances around 
him, — his limbs trembling, his lips livid, his brows 
bathed in dew. Convinced that some secret sorrow 
preyed upon his mind, and would consume his health, 
it was the dearest as the most natural desire of Adela 
to become his confidant and consoler. She observed, 
with the quick tact of the delicate, that he disliked her 
to seem affected by, or even sensible of, his darker 
moods. She schooled herself to suppress her fears and 
her feelings. She would not ask his confidence, — she 
sought to steal into it. By little and little she felt that 
she was succeeding. Too wrapped in his own strange 
existence to be acutely observant of the character of 
others, Glyndon mistook the self-content of a generous 
and humble affection for constitutional fortitude; and 
this quality pleased and soothed him. It is fortitude 


358 


Z AN ONI. 


that the diseased mind required in the confidant whom 
it selects as its physician. And how irresistible is that 
desire to communicate! How often the lonely man 
thought to himself, “ My heart would be lightened of 
its misery, if once confessed! ” He felt, too, that in 
the very youth, the inexperience, the poetical tempera- 
ment of Adela, he could find one who would comprehend 
and bear with him better than any sterner and more 
practical nature. Mervale would . have looked on his 
revelations as the ravings of madness, and most men, at 
best, as the sicklied chimeras, the optical delusions, of 
disease. Thus gradually preparing himself for that 
relief for which he yearned, the moment for his disclos- 
ure arrived thus : — 

One evening, as they sat alone together, Adela, who 
inherited some portion of her brother’s talent in art, 
was employed in drawing, and Glyndon, rousing himself 
from meditations less gloomy than usual, rose, and 
afifectionately passing his arm round her waist, looked 
over her as she sat. An exclamation of dismay broke 
from his lips, — he snatched the drawing from her hand ; 
“ What are you about ? — what portrait is this ? ” 

“Dear Clarence, do you not remember the original? 
— it is a copy from that portrait of our wise ances- 
tor which our poor mother used to say so strongly 
resembled you. I thought it would please- you if I 
copied it from memory.” 

“ Accursed was the likeness!” said Glyndon, gloomily. 
“ Guess you not the reason why I have shunned to return 
to the home of my fathers ! — because I dreaded to meet 
that portrait! — because — because — but pardon me; I 
alarm you! ” 

“Ah, no, — no, Clarence, you never alarm me when 
you speak: only when you are silent! Oh, if you 


ZANONI. 


359 


thought me worthy of your trust; oh, if you had given 
me the right to reason with you in the sorrows that I 
yearn to share ! ” 

Glyndon made no answer, but paced the room for, 
some moments with disordered strides. He stopped at 
last, and gazed at her earnestly. “Yes, you, too, are 
his descendant ; you know that such men have lived and 
suffered; you will not mock me, — you will not disbe- 
lieve ! Listen ! hark ! — what sound is that ? ” 

“ But the wind on the house-top, Clarence, — but the 
wind.” 

‘‘Give me your hand; let me feel its living clasp; 
and when I have told you, never revert to the tale again. 
Conceal it from all: swear that it shall die with us, — ■ 
the last of our predestined race ! ” 

“ N'ever will I betray your trust; I swear it, ^ — ■ 
never! ” said Adela, firmly; and she drew closer to his 
side. Then Glyndon commenced his story. That 
which, perhaps, in writing, and to minds prepared to 
question and disbelieve, may seem cold and terrorless, 
became far different when told by those blanched lips, with 
all that truth of suffering which convinces and appalls. 
Much, indeed, he concealed, much he involuntarily soft- 
ened; but he revealed enough to make his tale intelli- 
gible and distinct to his pale and trembling listener. 
“At daybreak,” he said, “I left that unhallowed and 
abhorred abode. I had one hope still, — I would seek 
Mejnour through the world. I would force him to lay 
at rest the fiend that haunted my soul. With this 
intent I journeyed from city to city. I instituted the 
most vigilant researches through the police of Italy. 
I even employed the services of the Inquisition at Borne, 
wrhich had lately asserted its ancient powers in the trial 
)f the less dangerous Cagliostro. All was in vain ; not a 


360 


ZANONI. 


trace of him could be discovered. I was not alone, 
Adela. ” Here Glyndon paused a moment, as if embar- 
rassed; for in his recital, I need scarcely say that he had 
only indistinctly alluded to Fillide, whom the reader 
may surmise to be his companion. “ I was not alone, 
but the associate of my wanderings was not one in 
whom my soul could confide, — faithful and affectionate, 
but without education, without faculties to comprehend 
me, with natural instincts rather than cultivated reason; 
one in whom the heart might lean in its careless hours, 
but with whom the mind could have no commune, in 
whom the bewildered spirit could seek no guide. Yet 
in the society of this person the demon troubled me 
not. Let me explain yet more fully the dread condi- 
tions of its presence. In coarse excitement, in common- 
place life, in the wild riot, in the fierce excess, in the 
torpid lethargy of that animal existence which we share 
with the brutes, its eyes were invisible, its whisper was 
unheard. But whenever the soul would aspire, when- 
ever the imagination kindled to the loftier ends, when- 
ever the consciousness of our proper destiny struggled 
against the unworthy life I pursued, then, Adela — 
then, it cowered by my side in the light of noon, or sat 
by my bed, — a Darkness visible through the Dark. If, 
in the galleries of Divine Art, the dreams of my youth 
woke the early emulation, — if I turned to the thoughts 
of sages ; if the example of the great, if the converse of 
the wise, aroused the silenced intellect, the demon was 
with me as by a spell. At last, one evening, at 
Genoa, to which city I had travelled in pursuit of the 
mystic, suddenly, and when least expected, he appeared 
before me. It was the time of the Carnival. It was in 
one of those half-frantic scenes of noise and revel, call 
it not gayety, which establish a heathen saturnalia in 


ZANONI. 


361 


the midst of a Christian festival. Wearied with the 
dance, I had entered a room in which several revellers 
were seated, drinking, singing, shouting; and in their 
fantastic dresses and hideous masks, their orgy seemed 
scarcely human. I placed myself amongst them, and in 
that fearful excitement of the spirits which the happy 
never know, I was soon the most riotous of all. The 
conversation fell on the devolution of France, which 
had always possessed for me an absorbing fascination. 
The masks spoke of the millennium it was to bring on 
earth, not as philosophers rejoicing in the advent of 
light, but as ruffians exulting in the annihilation of law. 
I know not why it was, but their licentious language 
infected myself; and, always desirous to be foremost in 
every circle, I soon exceeded even these rioters in 
declamations on the nature of the liberty which was 
about to embrace all the families of the globe, — a 
liberty that should pervade not only public legislation, 
but domestic life ; an emancipation from every fetter that 
men had forged for themselves. In the midst of this 
tirade one of the masks whispered me, — 

‘ Take care. One listens to you who seems to be a 
spy! ’ 

" My eyes followed those of the mask, and I observed 
a man who took no part in the conversation, but whose 
gaze was bent upon me. He was disguised like the 
rest, yet I found by a general whisper that none had 
observed him enter. His silence, his attention, had 
alarmed the fears of the other revellers, — they only 
excited me the more. Kapt in my subject, I pursued 
it, insensible to the signs of those about me; and, 
addressing myself only to the silent mask who sat alone, 
apart from the group, I did not even observe that, one 
by one, the revellers slunk off, and that I and the silent 


362 


ZANONI. 


listener were left alone, until, pausing from my heated 
and impetuous declamations, I said, — 

“ ‘ And you, signor, — what is your view of this 
mighty era ? Opinion without persecution ; brotherhood 
without jealousy; love without bondage — ’ 

“ ‘ And life without God,’ added the mask as I hesi- 
tated for new images. 

“ The sound of that well-known voice changed the 
Current of my thought. I sprang forward, and cried, — 

“ ‘ Imposter or Fiend, we meet at last! ’ 

" The figure rose as I advanced, and, unmasking, 
showed the features of Mejnour. His fixed eye, his 
majestic aspect, awed and repelled me. I stood rootfed 
to the ground. 

“ ‘ Yes,’ he said solemnly, * we meet, and it is this 
meeting that I have sought. How hast thou followed 
my admonitions! Are these the scenes in which the 
Aspirant for the Serene Science thinks to escape the 
Ghastly Enemy 1 Do the thoughts thou hast uttered 

— thoughts that would strike all order from the universe 

— express the hopes of the sage who would rise to the 
Harmony of the Eternal Spheres ? ’ 

“‘It is thy fault, — it is thine!’ I exclaimed. 
* Exorcise the phantom! Take the haunting terror from 
my soul! ’ 

“Mejnour looked at me a moment with a cold and 
cynical disdain which provoked at once my fear and 
rage, and replied, — 

“ * Ho; fool of thine own senses! Ho; thou must 
have full and entire experience of the illusions to which 
the Knowledge that is without Faith climbs its Titan 
way. Thou pantest for this Millennium, — thou shalt 
behold it! Thou shalt be one of the agents of the era 
of Light and Reason. I see, while I speak, the Phan* 


ZANONI. 


363 


tom thou fliest, by thy side; it marshals thy path; it 
has power over thee as yet, — a power that defies my 
own. In the last days of that Revolution which thou 
hailest, amidst the wrecks of the Order thou cursest as^ 
Oppression, seek the fulfilment of thy destiny, andl 
await thy cure. ’ 

“ At that instant a troop of masks, clamorous, intox- 
icated, reeling, and rushing, as they reeled, poured into 
the room, and separated me from the mystic. I broke 
through them, and sought him everywhere, but in vain. 
All my researches the next day were equally fruitless. 
Weeks were consumed in the same pursuit, — not a trace 
of Mejnour could be discovered. Wearied with false 
pleasures, roused by reproaches I had deserved, recoiling 
from Mejnour’s prophecy of the scene in which I was to 
seek deliverance, it occurred to me, at last, that in the 
sober air of my native country, and amidst its orderly and 
vigorous pursuits, I might work out my own emancipa- 
tion from the spectre. I left all whom I had before 
courted and clung to, — I came hither. Amidst merce- 
nary schemes and selfish speculations, I found the same 
relief as in debauch and excess. The Phantom was 
invisible; but these pursuits soon became to me distaste- 
ful as the rest. Ever and ever I felt that I was born for 
something nobler than the greed of gain, — that life may 
be made equally worthless, and the soul equally 
degraded by the icy lust of avarice, as by the noisier 
passions. A higher ambition never ceased to torment 
me. But, but,” continued Glyndon, with a whiten- 
ing lip and a visible shudder, “ at every attempt to 
rise into loftier existence, came that hideous form. It 
gloomed beside me at the easel. Before the volumes of 
poet and sage it stood with its burning eyes in the 
stillness of night, and I thought I heard its horrible 


364 


ZANONI. 


whispers uttering temptations never to be divulged.” 
He paused, and the drops stood upon his brow. 

“ But I,” said Adela, mastering her fears and throwing 
her arms around him, — " but I henceforth will have no 
life but in thine. And in this love so pure, so holy, 
thy terror shall fade away.” 

"No, no!” exclaimed Glyndon, starting from her. 
" The worst revelation is to come. Since thou hast 
been here, since I have sternly and resolutely refrained 
from every haunt, every scene in which this preter- 
natural enemy troubled me not, I — I — have — Oh, 
Heaven! Mercy — mercy! There it stands, — there, 
by thy side, — there, there!” And he fell to the 
ground insensible. 


ZANONI. 


365 


CHAPTEE V. 

Doch wunderbar ergriff mich’s diese Nacht ; 

Die Glieder schienen schon inTodes Macht.^ 

Uhland. 

A FEVER, attended with delirium, for several days 
deprived Glyndon of consciousness; and when, by 
Adela’s care more than the skill of the physicians, he 
Avas restored to life and reason, he was unutterably 
shocked by the change in his sister^s appearance; at 
first, he fondly imagined that her health, affected by 
her vigils, would recover with his own. But he soon 
saw, with an anguish which partook of remorse, that the 
malady was deep-seated, — deep, deep, beyond the reach 
of ^sculapius and his drugs. Her imagination , little 
less lively than his own, was awfully impressed by the 
strange confessions she had heard, — by the ravings of 
his delirium. Again and again had he shrieked forth, 
“ It is there, — there, by thy side, my sister! ” He had 
transferred to her fancy the spectre, and the horror that 
cursed himself. He perceived this, not by her words, 
but her silence; by the eyes that strained into space; 
by the shiver that came over her frame; by the start of 
terror; by the look that did not dare to turn behind. 
Bitterly he repented his confession; bitterly he felt 
that between his sufferings and human sympathy there 
could be no gentle and holy commune ; vainly he sought 

1 This night it fearfully seized on me ; my limbs appeared already 
in the power of deatL 


366 


ZANONI. 


to retract, — to undo what he had done, to declare all 
was but the chimera of an overheated brain! 

And brave and generous was this denial of himself; 
for, often and often, as he thus spoke, he saw the Thing 
of Dread gliding to her side, and glaring at him as he 
disowned its being. But what chilled him, if possible, 
yet more than her wasting form and trembling nerves, 
was the change in her love for him ; a natural terror had 
replaced it. She turned paler if he approached, — she 
shuddered if he took her hand. Divided from the rest 
of earth, the gulf of the foul remembrance yawned now 
between his sister and himself. He could endure no 
more the presence of the one whose life his life had 
embittered. He made some excuses for departure, and 
writhed to see that they were greeted eagerly. The 
first gleam of joy he had detected since that fatal 
night, on Adela’s face, he beheld when he murmured 
" Dare well. ” He travelled for some weeks through the 
wildest parts of Scotland; scenery, which makes the 
artist, was loveless to his haggard eyes. A letter 
recalled him to London on the wings of new agony and 
fear; he arrived to find his sister in a condition both of 
mind and health which exceeded his worst apprehensions. 

Her vacant look, her lifeless posture, appalled him; 
it was as one who gazed on the Medusa’s head, and felt, 
without a struggle, the human being gradually harden 
to the statue. It was not frenzy, it was not idiocy, — 
it was an abstraction, an apathy, a sleep in waking. 
Only as the night advanced towards the eleventh hour 
— the hour in which Glyndon had concluded his tale — 
she grew visibly uneasy, anxious, and perturbed. 
Then her lips muttered; her hands writhed; she looked 
round with a look of unspeakable appeal for succor, 
for protection, and suddenly, as the clock struck, fell 


ZANONI. 


367 


with a shriek to the ground, cold and lifeless. With 
difficulty, and not until after the most earnest prayers, 
did she answer the agonized questions of Glyndon ; at 
last she owned that at that hour, and that hour alone, 
wherever she was placed, however occupied, she dis- 
tinctly heheld the apparition of an old hag, who, after 
thrice knocking at the door, entered the room, and 
hobbling up to her with a countenance distorted by 
hideous rage and menace, laid its icy fingers on her 
forehead: from that moment she declared that sense 
forsook her; and when she woke again, it was only to 
wait, in suspense that froze up her blood, the repetition 
of the ghastly visitation. 

The physician who had been summoned before Glyn- 
don’s return, and whose letter had recalled him to 
London, was a commonplace practitioner, ignorant of 
the case, and honestly anxious that one more experienced 
should be employed. Clarence called in one of the most 
eminent of the faculty, and to him he recited the optical 
delusion of his sister. The physician listened atten- 
tively, and seemed sanguine in his hopes of cure. 
He came to the house two hours before the one so 
dreaded by the patient. He had quietly arranged that 
the clocks should be put forward half an hour, unknown 
to Adela, and even to her brother. He was a man gf 
the most extraordinary powers of conversation, of sur- 
passing wit, of all the faculties that interest and amuse. 
He first administered to the patient a harmless potion, 
which he pledged himself would dispel the delusion. 
His confident tone woke her own hopes, — he continued 
to excite her attention, to rouse her lethargy; he jested, 
he laughed away the time. The hour struck. “ Joy, 
my brother! ” she exclaimed, throwing herself in his 
arms; “ the time is past! ” And then, like one released 


368 


ZANONL 


from a spell, she suddenly assumed more than her 
ancient cheerfulness. Ah, Clarence! ” she whispered, 
“ forgive me for my former desertion, — forgive me that 
I feared you. I shall live ! — I shall live ! in my turn 
to banish the spectre that haunts my brother! ” And 
Clarence smiled and wiped the tears from his burning 
eyes. The physician renewed his stories, his jests. 
In the midst of a stream of rich humor that seemed to 
carry away both brother and sister, Glyndon suddenly 
saw over Adela’s face the same fearful change, the same 
anxious look, the same restless, straining eye, he had 
beheld the night before. He rose, — he approached 
her. Adela started up. “ Look — look — look ! ” she 
exclaimed. “ She comes! Save me, — save me! ” and 
she fell at his feet in strong convulsions; as the clock, 
falsely and in vain put forward, struck the half-hour. 

The physician lifted her in his arms. " My worst 
fears are confirmed, ” he said gravely ; “ the disease is 
epilepsy.” ^ 

The next night, at the same hour, Adela Glyndon 
died. 

1 The most celebrated practitioner in Dublin related to the 
editor a story of optical delusion precisely similar in its circum- 
stances and its physical cause to the one here narrated. 


ZANONL 


369 


CHAPTER VI. 


La loi, dont le regne vous epouvante, a son glaive leve sur vous: 
elle vous frappera tous : le genre humain a besoin de cet 
exemple.i — Couthon. 

“Oh, joy, joy! — thou art come again! This is thy 
hand — these thy lips. Say that thou didst not desert 
me from the love of another; say it again, — say it ever! 
— and I will pardon thee all the rest ! ” 

“ So thou hast mourned for me ? ” 

“ Mourned ! — and thou wert cruel enough to leave me 
gold ; there it is, — there, untouched ! ” 

“ Poor child of Nature ! how, then, in this strange 
town of Marseilles, hast thou found bread and shelter ? ” 
“Honestly, soul of my soul! honestly, but yet by the 
face thou didst once think so fair; thinkest thou that 
now % ” 

“ Yes, Pillide, more fair than ever. But what meanest 
thou ? ” 

“ There is a painter here — a great man, one of their 
great men at Paris, I know not what they call them; 
but he rules over all here, — life and death ; and he has 
paid me largely but to sit for my portrait. It is for a 
picture to be given to the Nation, for he paints only 
for glory. Think of thy Pillide ’s renown ! ” And the 
girl’s wild eyes sparkled ; her vanity was roused. 

1 The law, whose reign terrifies you, has its sword raised against 
you ; it will strike you all : humanity has need of this example. 

24 


370 


ZANONI. 


“And he would have married me if I would! — 
divorced his wife to marry me ! But I waited for thee, 
ungrateful! 

A knock at the door was heard, — a man entered. 

“ Nicot!” 

“ Ah, Glyndon ! — hum ! — welcome ! What ! thou 
art twice my rival! But Jean Nicot bears no malice. 
Virtue is my dream, — my country, my mistress. Serve 
my country, citizen; and I forgive thee the preference 
of beauty, ira ! ga ira I ” 

But as the painter spoke, it hymned, it rolled through 
the streets, — the fiery song of the Marseillaise! There 
was a crowd, a multitude, a people up, abroad, with 
colors and arms, enthusiasm and song, — with song, 
with enthusiasm, with colors and arms ! And who 
could guess that that martial movement was one, not of 
war, but massacre, — Frenchmen against Frenchmen 
For there are two parties in Marseilles, — and ample 
work for Jourdan Coupe-tete! But this, the English- 
man, just arrived, a stranger to all factions, did not as 
yet coniprehend. He comprehended nothing but the 
song, the enthusiasm, the arms, and the colors that 
lifted to the sun the glorious lie, “ Le peuple Frangais^ 
dehout contre les tyrans ! ” ^ 

The dark brow of the wretched wanderer grew ani- 
mated; he gazed from the window on the throng that 
marched below, beneath their waving Oriflamme. They 
shouted as they beheld the patriot Nicot, the friend of 
Liberty and relentless Hebert, by the stranger’s side, at 
the casement. 

“Ay, shout again!” cried the. painter, — “shout for 
the brave Englishman who abjures his Pitts and his 
Coburgs to be a citizen of Liberty and France ! ” 

1 Up, Frenchmen, against tyrants 1 


Z AN ONI. 371 

A thousand voices rent the air, and the hymn of the 
Marseillaise rose in majesty again. 

“ Well, and if it be among these high hopes and this 
brave people that the phantom is to vanish, and the cure 
to come! ” muttered Glyndon; and he thought he felt 
again the elixir sparkling through his veins. 

“ Thou shalt be one of the Convention with Paine 
and Clootz, — I will manage it all for thee ! ” cried Nicot, 
slapping him on the shoulder : “ and Paris — ” 

, “ Ah, if I could but see Paris ! ” cried Fillide, in her 
joyous voice. Joyous ! the whole time, the town, the 
air — save where, unheard, rose the cry of agony and 
the yell of murder — were joy! Sleep unhaunting in 
thy grave, cold Adela. Joy, joy! In the Jubilee of 
Humanity all private griefs should cease ! Behold, wild 
mariner, the vast whirlpool draws thee to its stormy 
bosom! There the individual is not. All things are of 
the whole ! Open thy gates , fair Paris, for the stranger- 
citizen! Receive in your ranks, 0 meek Republicans, 
the new champion of liberty, of reason, of mankind! 
“ Mejnour is right; it was in virtue, in valor, in glorious 
struggle for the human race, that the spectre was to 
shrink to her kindred darkness.” 

And Nicot’s shrill voice praised him; and lean 
Robespierre — “ Flambeau, colonne, jpierre angulaire de 
V edifice de la Republique ^ — smiled ominously on him 
from his Bloodshot eyes; and Pillide clasped him with 
passionate arms to her tender breast. And at his up-ris- 
ing and down-sitting, at board and in bed, though he saw 
it not, the Nameless One guided him with the demon 
eyes to the sea whose waves were gore. 

1 “ The light, column, and keystone of the Republic.” — Letm 
du Citoyen P / Papiers inedits trouves chez Robespierre, tom. 

11, p. 127. 




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BOOK VI. 


SUPEKSTITION DESERTING FAITH. 


CHAPTER I. 

Therefore the Genii were painted with a platter full of garlands 
and flowers in one hand, and a whip in the other. — Alexander 
Ross, Mystag. Poet. 

According to the order of the events related in this 
narrative, the departure of Zanoni and Viola from the 
Greek isle, in which two happy years appear to have 
been passed, must have been somewhat later in date 
than the arrival of Glyndon at Marseilles. It must 
have been in the course of the year 1791 when Viola 
fled from Naples with her mysterious lover, and when 
Glyndon sought Mejnour in the fatal castle. It is now 
towards the close of 1793, when our story again returns 
to Zanoni. The stars of winter shone down on the 
lagunes of Venice. The hum of the Rialto was hushed^ 
— the last loiterers had deserted the Place of St. Mark’s, 
and only at distant intervals might be heard the oars of 
the rapid gondolas, bearing reveller or lover to his 
home. But lights still flitted to and fro across the 
windows of one of the Palladian palaces, whose shadow 
slept in the great canal ; and within the palace watched 
the twin Eumenides that never sleep for Man, — Fear 
and Pain. 


374 


ZANONI. 


“ I will make thee the richest man in all Venice, if 
thou savest her.” 

“Signor,” said the leech; “ your gold cannot control 
death, and the will of Heaven, signor, unless within the 
next hour there is some blessed change, prepare your 
courage. ” 

Ho — ho, Zanoni ! man of mystery and might, who hast 
walked amidst the passions of the world, with no changes 
on thy brow, art thou tossed at last upon the billows of 
tempestuous fear? Does thy spirit reel to and fro? 

— knowest thou at last the strength and the majesty of 
Death ? 

He fled, trembling, from the pale-faced man of art, 

— fled through stately hall and long-drawn corridor, and 
gained a remote chamber in the palace, which other step 
than his was not permitted to profane. Out with thy 
herbs and vessels. Break from the enchanted elements, 
O silvery -azure flame! Why comes he not, — the Son 
of the Starbeam! Why is Adon-Ai deaf to thy solemn 
call ? It comes not, ^ — the luminous and delightsome 
Presence! Cabalist! are thy charms in vain? Has 
thy throne vanished from the realms of space ? Thou 
standest pale and trembling. Pale trembler! not thus 
didst thou look when the things of glory gathered at 
thy spell. Never to the pale trembler bow the things 
of glory: the soul, and not the herbs, nor the silvery- 
azure flame, nor the spells of the Cabala, commands the 
children of the air; and thy soul, by Love and Death, 
is made sceptreless and discrowned! 

At length the flame quivers, — the air grows cold as 
the wind in charnels. A thing not of earth is present, 

— a mistlike, formless thing. It cowers in the distance, 

— a silent Horror! it rises; it creeps; it nears thee — - 
dark in its mantle of dusky haze ; and under its veil it 


ZANONI. 375 

looks on thee with its livid, malignant eyes, — the 
thing of malignant eyes! 

“ Ha, young Chaldean! young in thy countless ages, 
— young as when, cold to pleasure and to beauty, thou 
stoodest on the old Fire-tower, and heardest the starry 
silence whisper to thee the last mystery that baffles 
Death, — fearest thou Death at length? Is thy knowl- 
edge hut a circle that brings thee hack whence thy 
wanderings began! Generations on generations have 
withered since we two met! Lo! thou beholdest me 
now! ” 

“ But I behold thee without fear! Though beneath 
thine eyes thousands have perished; though, where they 
burn, spring up the foul poisons of the human heart, 
and to those whom thou canst subject to thy will, thy 
presence glares in the dreams of the raving maniac, or 
blackens the dungeon of despairing crime, thou art not 
my vanquisher, but my slave! ” 

“ And as a slave will I serve thee ! Command thy 
slave, O beautiful Chaldean! Hark, the wail of 
women! — hark, the sharp shriek of thy beloved one! 
Death is in thy palace! Adon-Ai comes not to thy 
call. Only where no cloud of the passion and the flesh 
veils the eye of the Serene Intelligence can the Sons of 
the Starbeam glide to man. But I can aid thee ! — 
hark! ” And Zanoni heard distinctly in his heart, 
even at that distance from the chamber, the voice of 
Viola, calling in delirium on her beloved one. 

" Oh, Viola, I can save thee not! exclaimed the 
seer, passionately ; “ my love for thee has made me 
powerless! ” 

“ Hot powerless ; I can gift thee with the art to save 
her, — I can place healing in thy hand! ” 

For both 2 — child and mother, — for both 2 ** 


376 


ZANONI. 


« Both!” 

A convulsion shook the limbs of the seer, — a mighty 
struggle shook him as a child : the Humanity and the 
Hour conquered the repugnant spirit. 

“ I yield ! Mother and child — save both ! ” 

In the dark chamber lay Viola, in the sharpest 
agonies of travail ; life seemed rending itself away in the 
groans and cries that spoke of pain in the midst of 
frenzy j and still, in groan and cry, she called on 
Zanoni, her beloved. The physician looked to the 
clock; on it beat; the Heart of Time, — regularly and 
slowly, — Heart that never sympathized with Life, and 
never flagged for Death! " The cries are fainter,” said 
the leech; “ in ten minutes more all will be past.” 

Fool! the minutes laugh at thee; Nature, even now, 
like a blue sky through a shattered temple, is smiling 
through the tortured frame. The breathing grows more 
calm and hushed; the voice of delirium is dumb, — a 
sweet dream has come to Viola. Is it a dream, or is it 
the soul that sees? She thinks suddenly that she is 
with Zanonb that her burning head is pillowed on his 
bosom; she thinks, as he gazes on her, that his eyes 
dispel the tortures that prey upon her, — the touch of 
his hand cools the fever on her brow; she hears his 
voice in murmurs, — it is a music from which the fiends 
fly. Where is the mountain that seemed to press upon 
her temples? Like a vapor, it rolls away. In the 
frosts of the winter night, she sees the sun laughing in 
luxurious heaven, — she hears the whisper of green 
leaves; the beautiful world, valley and stream and 
woodland, lie before, and with a common voice speak to 
her, “ We are not yet past for thee ! ” Fool of drugs and 
formula, look to thy dial -plate! — the hand has moved 


ZANONL 


377 


on ; the minutes are with Eternity ; the soul thy sentence 
would have dismissed, still dwells on the shores of 
Time. She sleeps: the fever abates; the convulsions 
are gone; the living rose blooms upon her cheek; the 
crisis is past! Husband, thy wife lives; lover, thy 
universe is no solitude! Heart of Time, heat on! A 
while, a little while, — joy ! joy ! joy ! — father, embrace 
thy child! 


378 


ZANONI. 


CHAPTER II. 

Tristis Erinnys 

Praetiilit infaustas sanguinolenta faces.i 

Ovid. 

And they placed the child in the father’s arms! As 
silently he bent over it, tears — tears, how human! — 
fell from his eyes like rain ! And the little one smiled 
through the tears that bathed its cheeks! Ah, with 
what happy tears we welcome the stranger into our 
sorrowing world! With what agonizing tears we dis- 
miss the stranger back to the angels! Unselfish joy; 
but how selfish is the sorrow ! 

And now through the silent chamber a faint sweet 
voice is heard, — the young mother’s voice. 

I am here : I am by thy side ! ” murmured Zanoni. 

The mother smiled, and clasped his hand, and asked 
no more ; she was contented. 

Viola recovered with a rapidity that startled the 
physician; and the young stranger thrived as if it 
already loved the world to which it had descended. 
From that hour Zanoni seemed to live in the infant’s 
life, and in that life the souls of mother and father 
met as in a new bond. Nothing more beautiful than 
this infant had eye ever dwelt upon. It was strange 
to the nurses that it came not wailing to the light, but 
smiled to the light as a thing familiar to it before. It 
never uttered one cry of childish pain. In its very 

1 Erinnys, doleful and bloody, extends the unblessed torches. 


ZANONl. 


379 


repose it seemed to be listening to some happy voice 
within its heart: it seemed itself so happy. In its 
eyes you would have thought intellect already kindled, 
though it had not yet found a language. Already it 
seemed to recognize its parents ; already it stretched forth 
its arms when Zanoni bent over the bed, in which it 
breathed and bloomed , — the budding flower ! And from 
that bed he was rarely absent : gazing upon it with his 
serene, delighted eyes, his soul seemed to feed its own. 
At night and in utter darkness he was still there ; and 
Viola often heard him murmuring over it as she lay in a 
half-sleep. But the murmur was in a language strange 
to her; and sometimes when she heard she feared, and 
vague, undeflned superstitions came back to her, — the 
superstitions of earlier youth. A mother fears every- 
thing, even the gods, for her new-born. The mortals 
shrieked aloud when of old they saw the great Demeter 
seeking to make their child immortal. 

But Zanoni, wrapped in the sublime designs that 
animated the human love to which he was now awak- 
ened, forgot all, even all he had forfeited or incurred, in 
the love that blinded him. 

But the dark, formless thing, though he nor invoked 
nor saw it, crept, often, round and round him, and 
often sat by the infant’s couch, with its hateful eyes. 


380 


ZANONI. 


CHAPTEE III. 

Fuscis tellurem amplectitur alis.^ — Vibgil. 

LETTER FROM ZANONI TO MEJNOUR. 

Mejnour, Humanity, with all its sorrows and its joys, is 
mine once more. Day by day, I am forging my own fetters. 
1 live in other lives than my own, and in them I have lost 
more than half my empire. Not lifting them aloft, they drag 
me by the strong bands of the affections to their own earth. 
Exiled from the beings only visible to the most abstract sense, 
the grim Enemy that guards the Threshold has entangled me 
in its web. Canst thou credit me, when I tell thee that I 
have accepted its gifts, and endure the forfeit ? Ages must 
pass ere the brighter beings can again obey the spirit that has 
bowed to the ghastly one I And — 

In this hope, then, Mejnour, I triumph still; I yet have 
supreme power over this' young life. Insensibly and inaudi- 
bly my soul speaks to its own, and prepares it even now. 
Thou knowest that for the pure and unsullied infant spirit, 
the ordeal has no terror and no peril. Thus unceasingly I 
nourish it with no unholy light ; and ere it yet be conscious 
of the gift, it will gain the privileges it has been mine to 
attain ; the child, by slow and scarce-seen degrees, will com- 
municate its own attributes to the mother; and content to 
see Youth forever radiant on the brows of the two that now 
suffice to fill up my whole infinity of thought, shall I regret 
the airier kingdom that vanishes hourly from my grasp ? But 
thou, whose vision is still clear and serene, look into the far 
deeps shut from my gaze, and counsel me, or forewarn ! I 

^ Embraces the Earth with gloomy wings. 


2AN0NL 


381 


know that the gifts of the Being whose race is so hostile to 
our own are, to the common seeker, fatal and perfidious as 
itself. And hence, when, at the outskirts of knowledge, 
which in earlier ages men called Magic, they encountered the 
things of the hostile tribes, they believed the apparitions to be 
fiends, and, by fancied compacts, imagined they had signed 
away their souls ; as if man could give for an eternity that 
over which he has control but while he lives 1 Dark, and 
shrouded forever from human sight, dwell the demon rebels, 
in their impenetrable realm ; in them is no breath of the 
Divine One. In every human creature the Divine One 
breathes ; and He alone can judge His own hereafter, and 
allot its new career and home. Could man sell himself to the 
fiend, man could prejudge himself, and arrogate the disposal 
of eternity 1 But these creatures, modifications as they are of 
matter, and some with more than the malignity of man, may 
well seem, to fear and unreasoning superstition, the represen- 
tatives of fiends. And from the darkest and mightiest of 
them I have accepted a boon, — the secret that startled Death 
from those so dear to me. Can I not trust that enough of 
power yet remains to me to baffle or to daunt the Phantom, 
if it seek to pervert the gift 1 Answer me, Mejnour, for in 
the darkness that veils me, I see only the pure eyes of the 
new-born ; I hear only the low beating of my heart. Answer 
me, thou whose wisdom is without love ! 


MEJNOUR TO ZANONI. 

Rome. 

Fallen One? — I see before thee Evil and Death and Woe ! 
Thou to have relinquished Adon-Ai for the nameless Terror, 
— the heavenly stars for those fearful eyes! Thou, at the 
last to be the victim of the Larva of the dreary Threshold, 
that, in thy first novitiate, fled, withered and shrivelled, from 
thy kingly brow ! When, at the primary grades of initiation, 
the pupii I took from thee on the shores of the changed 
Parthenop^, fell senseless and cowering before that Phantom- 
Darkness, I knew that his spirit was not formed to front the 


382 


ZANONI. 


worlds beyond ; for fear is the attraction of man to earthiest 
earth, and while he fears, he cannot soar. But thou^ seest 
thou not that to love is but to fear ; seest thou not that the 
power of which thou boastest over the malignant one is already 
gone ? It awes, it masters thee ; it will mock thee and betray. 
Lose not a moment ; come to me. If there can yet be suffi- 
cient sympathy between us, through ray eyes shalt thou see, 
and perhaps guard against the perils that, shapeless yet, and 
looming through the shadow, marshal themselves around thee, 
and those whom thy very love has doomed. Come from all 
the ties of thy fond humanity; they will but obscure thy 
vision ! Come forth from thy fears and hopes, thy desires and 
passions. Come, as alone Mind can be the monarch and the. 
seer, shining through the home it tenants, — a pure, impres- 
sionless, sublime intelligence ! 


ZANONI. 


383 


CHAPTER ly. 

Plus que vous ne pensez ce moment est terrible.^ 

La Harpe, Le Comte de Waiwiclc, Act 3, sc. 5. 

For the first time since their union, Zanoni and Viola 
were separated, — Zanoni went to Rome on important 
business. “ It was,” he said, “ but for a few days ; ” and 
he went so suddenly that there was little time either for 
surprise or sorrow. But first parting is always more 
melancholy than it need be: it seems an interruption 
to the existence which Love shares with Love ; it 
makes the heart feel what a void life will be when the 
last parting shall succeed, as succeed it must, the first. 
But Viola had a new companion; she was enjoying that 
most delicious novelty which ever renews the youth and 
dazzles the eyes of woman. As the mistress — the wife 
— she leans on another ; from another are reflected her 
happiness, her being, — as an orb that takes light from 
its sun. But now, in turn, as the mother, she is raised 
from dependence into power; it is another that leans on 
her, — a star has sprung into space, to which she herself 
has become the sun! 

A few days, — but they will be sweet through the sor- 
row! A few days, — every hour of which seems an era 
to the infant, over whom bend watchful the eyes and the 
heart. From its waking to its sleep, from its sleep to 
its waking, is a revolution in Time. Every gesture to 
be noted, — every smile to seem a new progress into the 
world it has come to bless ! Zanoni has gone, — the last 
dash of the oar is lost, the last speck of the gondola has 
1 The moment is more terrible than you think. 


384 


ZANONI. 


yanished from the ocean-streets of Venice! Her infant 
is sleeping in the cradle at the mother’s feet; and she 
thinks through her tears what tales of the fairy-land, 
that spreads far and wide, with a thousand wonders, in 
that narrow bed, she shall have to tell the father! 
Smile on, weep on, young mother! Already the fairest 
leaf in the wild volume is closed for thee, and the 
invisible finger turns the page ! 

By the bridge of the Bialto stood two Venetians 
— ardent Bepublicans and Democrats — looking to the 
Devolution of France as the earthquake which must 
shatter their own expiring and vicious constitution, and 
give equality of ranks and rights to Venice. 

"Yes, Cottalto,” said one; “my correspondent of 
Paris has promised to elude all obstacles, and baffle 
all danger. He will arrange with us the hour of 
revolt, when the legions of France shall be within 
hearing of our guns. One day in this week, at this 
hour, he is to meet me here. This is but the fourth day. ” 

He had scarce said these words before a man, wrapped 
in his roquelaire^ emerging from one of the narrow 
streets to the left, halted opposite the pair, and eying 
them for a few moments with an earnest scrutiny, whis- 
pered, " Salut I ” 

Et fraternite” answered the speaker. 

“You, then, are the brave Dandolo with whom the 
Comite deputed me to correspond ? And this citizen — ” 

“ Is Cottalto, whom my letters have so often 
mentioned.” ^ 

^ I know not if the author of the original MSS. designs, under 
these names, to introduce the real Cottalto and the true Dandolo, 
who, in 1797, distinguished themselves by their sympathy with the 
French, and their democratic ardor. — Ed. 


ZANONI. 


385 


“ Health and brotherhood to him ! I have much to 
impart to you both. I will meet you at night, Dandolo. 
But in the streets we may be observed.” 

“ And I dare not appoint my own house ; tyranny 
makes spies of our very walls. But the place herein 
designated is secure ; ” and he slipped an address into 
the hand of his correspondent. 

“ To-night, then, at nine! Meanwhile I have other 
business.” The man paused, his color changed, and it 
was with an eager and passionate voice that he 
resumed, — • 

“ Your last letter mentioned this wealthy and myste- 
rious visitor, — this Zanoni. He is still at Venice ? ” 

“ I heard that he had left this morning; but his wife 
is still here.” 

“ His wife ! — that is well ! ” 

“ What know you of him ? Think you that he 
would join us 1 His wealth would be — ” 

“His house, his address, — quick! ” interrupted the 
man. 

“ The Palazzo di , on the Grand Canal.” 

“ I thank you, — at nine we meet. ” 

The man hurried on through the street from which he 
had emerged; and, passing by the house in which he 
had taken up his lodging (he had arrived at Venice the 
night before), a woman who stood by the door caught 
his arm. 

“ Monsieur, she said in French, “ I have been 
watching for your return. Do you understand me 1 I 
will brave all, risk all, to go back with you to France, 
— to stand, through life or in death, by my husband’s 
side! ” 

“ Citoyenne, I promised your husband that, if such 
your choice, I would hazard my own safety to aid it. 

25 


386 


ZANONI. 


But think again! Your husband is one of the faction 
which Robespierre ^s eyes have already marked ; he 
cannot fly. All France is become a prison to the 
* suspect.^ You do but endanger yourself by return. 
Frankly, citoyenne, the fate you would share may be 
the guillotine. I speak (as you know by his letter) as 
your husband bade me. ” 

“ Monsieur^ I will return with you,” said the woman, 
with a smile upon her pale face. 

** And yet you deserted your husband in the fair sun* 
shine of the Revolutipn, to return to him amidst its 
storms and thunder,” said the man, in a tone half of 
wonder, half rebuke. 

“ Because my father’s days were doomed ; because he 
had no safety but in flight to a foreign land; because 
he was old and penniless, and had none but me to work 
for him ; because my husband was not then in danger, 
and my father was ! he is dead — dead ! My husband is 
in danger now. The daughter’s duties are no more, — 
the wife’s return! ” 

“Be it so t citoyenne ; on the third night I depart. 
Before then you may retract your choice. ” 

“ Never! ” 

A dark smile passed over the man’s face. 

“0 guillotine!” he said, “how many virtues hast 
thou brought to light! Well may they call thee ‘ A 
Holy Mother ! ’ 0 gory guillotine ! ” 

He passed on muttering to himself, hailed a gondola, 
and was soon amidst the crowded waters of the Grand 
Canal. 


ZANONI. 


387 


CHAPTER V. 

Ce que j’ignore 

Eat plus triste peut-etre et plus affreux encore.' 

La Harpe, Le Comte de Warwick, Act 5, sc. 1. 

The casement stood open, and Viola was seated by it. 
Beneath sparkled the broad waters in the cold but cloud- 
less sunlight; and to that fair form, that half-averted 
face, turned the eyes of many a gallant cavalier, as their 
gondolas glided by. 

But at last, in the centre of the canal, one of these 
dark vessels halted motionless, as a man fixed his gaze 
from its lattice upon that stately palace. He gave the 
word to the rowers, — the vessel approached the marge. 
The stranger quitted the gondola ; he passed up the 
broad stairs; he entered the palace. Weep on, smile 
no more, young mother ! — the last page is turned ! 

An attendant entered the room, and gave to Viola a 
card, with these words in English, “ Viola, I must see 
you! Clarence Glyndon.” 

Oh, yes, how gladly Viola would see him; how 
gladly speak to him of her happiness, of Zanoni! — 
how gladly show to him her child! Poor Clarence! she 
had forgotten him till now, as she had all the fever of 
her earlier life, — its dreams, its vanities, its poor 
excitement, the lamps of the gaudy theatre, the applause 
of the noisy crowd. 

He entered. She started to behold him, so changed 
were his gloomy brow, his resolute, careworn features, 

' That which I know not is, perhaps, more sad and fearful still 


388 


ZANONI. 


from the graceful form and careless countenance of the 
artist-lover. His dress, though not mean, was rude, 
neglected, and disordered. A wild, desperate, half* 
savage air had supplanted that ingenuous mien, diffi* 
dent in its grace, earnest in its diffidence, which had 
once characterized the young worshipper of Art, the 
dreaming aspirant after some starrier lore. 

"Is it you?” she said at last. "Poor Clarence, 
how changed ! ” 

" Changed! ” he said abruptly, as he placed himself 
by her side. " And whom am I to thank , but the 
fiends — the sorcerers — who have seized upon thy exist- 
ence, as upon mine? Viola, hear me. A few weeks? 
since the news reached me that you were in Venice. 
Under other pretences, and through innumerable dan- 
gers, I have come hither, risking liberty, perhaps life, if 
my name and career are known in Venice, to warn and 
save you. Changed, you call me! — changed without; 
but what is that to the ravages within ? Be warned, be 
warned in time! ” 

The voice of Glyndon, sounding hollow and sepul- 
chral, alarmed Viola even more than his words. Pale, 
haggard, emaciated, he seemed almost as one risen from 
the dead, to appall and awe her. “ What,” she said, at 
last, in a faltering voice, — " what wild words do you 
utter ! Can you — ” 

"Listen!” interrupted Glyndon, laying his hand 
upon her arm, and its touch was as cold as death, — 
" listen ! You have heard of the old stories of men who 
have leagued themselves with devils for the attainment 
of preternatural powers. Those stories are not fables. 
Such men live. Their delight is to increase the unhal- 
lowed circle of wretches like themselves. Tf their pros- 
elytes fail in the ordeal, the demon seizes them, even in 


ZANONL 


389 


this life, as it hath seized me! — if they succeed, woe,* 
yea, a more lasting woe! There • is another life, 
where no spells can charm the evil one, or allay the 
torture. I have come from a scene where blood flows in 
rivers, — where Death stands by the side of the bravest 
and the highest, and the one monarch is the Guillotine ; 
but all the mortal perils with which men can be beset, 
are nothing to the dreariness of a chamber where the 
Horror that passes death moves and stirs! ” 

It was then that Glyndon, with a cold and distinct 
precision, detailed, as he had done to Adela, the initia- 
tion through which he had gone. He described, in 
words that froze the blood of his listener, the appearance 
of that formless phantom, with the eyes that seared 
the brain and congealed the marrow of those who beheld. 
Once seen, it never was to be exorcised. It came at 
its own will, prompting black thoughts, — whispering 
strange temptations. Only in scenes of turbulent excite- 
ment was it absent! Solitude, serenity, the struggling 
desires after peace and virtue, — these were the elements 
it loved to haunt! Bewildered, terror-stricken, the 
wild account confirmed by the dim impressions that 
never, in the depth and confidence of affection, had been 
closely examined, but rather banished as soon as felt, 
— that the life and attributes of Zanoni were not like 
those of mortals, — impressions which her own love had 
made her hitherto censure as suspicions that wronged, 
and which, thus mitigated, had perhaps only served to 
rivet the fascinated chains in which he bound her heart 
and senses, but which now, as Glyndon ’s awful narra- 
tive filled her with contagious dread, half unbound the 
very spells they had woven before, — Viola started up 
in fear, not for herself^ and clasped her child in her 
arms! 


390 


ZANONL 


“ Unhappiest one ! ” cried Glyndon, shuddering, “ hast 
thou indeed given birth to a victim thou canst not save ? 
Kefuse it sustenance, — let it look to thee in vain for 
food! In the grave, at least, there are repose and 
peace! ” 

Then there came hack to Viola’s mind the remem- 
brance of Zanoni’s night-long watches by that cradle, 
and the fear which even then had crept over her as she 
heard his murmured half-chanted words. And as the 
child looked at her with its cleaV, steadfast eye, in the 
strange intelligence of that look there was something 
that only confirmed her awe. So there both Mother and 
Forewarner stood in silence, — the sun smiling upon 
them through the casement, and dark by the cradle, 
though they saw it not, sat the motionless, veiled 
Thing! 

But by degrees better and juster and more grateful 
memories of the past returned to the young mother. 
The features of the infant, as she gazed, took the aspect 
of the absent father. A voice seemed to break from 
those rosy lips, and say, mournfully, “ I speak to thee 
in thy child. In return for all my love for thee and 
thine, dost thou distrust me, at the first sentence of a 
maniac who accuses ? ” 

Her breast heaved, her stature rose, her eyes shone 
with a serene and holy light. 

“ Go, poor victim of thine own delusions, ” she said 
to Glyndon ; “ I would not believe mine own senses, 
if they accused its father! And what knowest thou of 
Zanoni? What relation have Mejnour and the grisly 
spectres he invoked, with the radiant image with which 
thou wouldst connect them 1 ” 

“ Thou wilt learn too soon, ” replied Glyndon, gloomily. 


ZANONI. 


391 


“ And the very phantom that haunts me, whispers, with 
its bloodless lips, that its horrors await both thine and 
thee! I take not thy decision yet; before I leave 
Venice we shall meet again.” 

He said, and departed. 


392 


ZANONi. 


CHAPTER YI, 

Quel est Tegarement oil ton ame se Hvre? i 

La Harpe, Le Comte de Warwick, Act 4, ac. 4. 

Alas, Zanoni ! the aspirer, the dark, bright one ! 
didst thou think that the bond between the survivor 
of ages and the daughter of a day could endure ? Didst 
thou not foresee that, until the ordeal was past, there 
could be no equality between thy wisdom and her love ? 
Art thou absent now seeking amidst thy solemn secrets 
the solemn safeguards for child and mother, and for- 
gettest thou that the phantom that served thee hath power 
over its own gifts, — over the lives it taught thee to 
rescue from the grave ? Dost thou not know that Fear 
and Distrust, once sown in the heart of Love, spring up 
from the seed into a forest that excludes the stars? 
Dark, bright one! the hateful eyes glare beside the 
mother and the child I 

All that day Viola was distracted by a thousand 
thoughts and terrors, which fled as she examined them 
to settle back the darklier. She remembered that, as 
she had once said to Glyndon, her very childhood had 
been haunted with strange forebodings, that she was 
ordained for some preternatural doom. She remembered 
that, as she had told him this, sitting by the seas that 
slumbered in the arms of the Bay of Naples, he, too, 
had acknowledged the same forebodings, and a mysterious 
sympathy had appeared to unite their fates. She remem 

1 To what delusion does thy soul abandon itself 'i 


ZANONL 


393 


bered, above all, that, comparing their entangled thoughts, 
both had then said, that with the first sight of Zanoni 
the foreboding, the instinct, had spoken to their hearts 
more audibly than before, whispering that “ with him 
was connected the secret of the unconjectured life.” 

And now, when Glyndon and Viola met again, the 
hauntin^fears of childhood, thus referred to, woke from 
their enchanted sleep. With Glyndon’s terror she felt 
a sympathy, against which her reason and her love strug- 
gled in vain. And still, when she turned her looks upon 
her child, it watched her with that steady, earnest eye, 
and its lips moved as if it sought to speak to her, — but 
no sound came. The infant refused to sleep. Whenever 
she gazed upon its face, still those wakeful, watchful 
eyes ! — and in their earnestness, there spoke something 
of pain, of upbraiding, of accusation. They chilled her 
as she looked. Unable to endure, of herself, this sudden 
and complete revulsion of all the feelings which had 
hitherto made up her life, she formed the resolution 
natural to her land and creed; she sent for the priest 
who had habitually attended her at Venice, and to him 
she confessed, with passionate sobs and intense terror, 
the doubts that had broken upon her. The good father, 
a worthy and pious man, but with little education and 
less sense, one who held (as many of the lower Italians 
do to this day) even a poet to be a sort of sorcerer, 
seemed to shut the gates of hope upon her heart. His 
remonstrances were urgent, for his horror was unfeigned. 
He joined with Glyndon in imploring her to fly, if she 
felt the smallest doubt that her husband’s pursuits were 
of the nature which the Roman Church had benevolently 
burned so many scholars for adopting. And even the 
little that Viola could communicate seemed, to the igno- 
rant ascetic, irrefragable proof of sorcery and witchcraft: 


394 


ZANONI. 


he had, indeed, previously heard some of the strange 
rumors which followed the path of Zanoni, and was 
therefore prepared to believe the worst ; the worthy 
Bartolomeo would have made no bones of sending Watt 
to the stake, had he heard him speak of the steam- 
engine. But Viola, as imtutored as himself, was terrified 
by his rough and vehement eloquence, — terrifi^, for by 
that penetration which Catholic priests, however dull, 
generally acquire, in their vast experience of the human 
heart hourly exposed to their probe, Bartolomeo spoke 
less of danger to herself than to her child. “ Sorcerers, ” 
said he, “ have ever sought the most to decoy and seduce 
the souls of the young, — nay, the infant ; ” and there- 
with he entered into a long catalogue of legendary fables, 
which he quoted as historical facts. All at which an 
English woman would have smiled, appalled the tender 
but superstitious Neapolitan; and when the priest left 
her, with solemn rebukes and grave accusations of a 
dereliction of her duties to her child, if she hesitated to 
fly with it from an abode polluted by the darker powers 
and unhallowed arts, Viola, still clinging to the image of 
Zanoni, sank into a passive lethargy which held her 
very reason in suspense. 

The hours passed: night came on; the house was 
hushed; and Viola, slowly awakened from the numb- 
ness and torpor which had usurped her faculties, tossed 
to and fro on her couch, restless and perturbed. The 
stillness became intolerable; yet more intolerable the 
sound that alone broke it, the voice of the clock, knell- 
ing moment after. moment to its grave. The momentSi 
at last, seemed themselves to find voice, — to gain shape. 
She thought she beheld them springing, wan and fairy- 
like, from the womb of darkness; and ere they fell 
again, extinguished, into that womb, their grave, their 


ZANONI. 


395 


low small voices murmured, ** Woman, we report to 
eternity all that is done in time ! • What shall we report 
of thee, 0 guardian of a new-born soul ? ” She became 
sensible that her fancies had brought a sort of partial 
delirium, that she was in a state between sleep and 
waking, when suddenly one thought became more pre- 
dominant than the rest. The chamber which, in that 
and every house they had inhabited, even that in the^ 
Greek isles, Zanoni had set apart to a solitude on which 
none might intrude, the threshold of which even 
Viola’s step was forbid to cross, and never, hitherto, in 
that sweet repose of confidence which belongs to con- 
tented love, had she even felt the curious desire to dis- 
obey, — now, that chamber drew her towards it. 
Perhaps there might be found a somewhat to solve the 
riddle, to dispel or confirm the doubt: that thought 
grew and deepened in its intenseness; it fastened on 
her as with a palpable and irresistible grasp; it seemed 
to raise her limbs without her will. 

And now, through the chamber, along the galleries 
thou glidest, 0 lovely shape! sleep-walking, yet awake. 
The moon shines on thee as thou glidest by, casement 
after casement, white-robed and wandering spirit! — 
thine arms crossed upon thy bosom, thine eyes fixed 
and open, with a calm, unfearing awe. Mother, it is 
thy child that leads thee on! The fairy moments go 
before thee; thou hearest still the clock-knell tolling 
them to their graves behind. On, gliding on, thou 
hast gained the door; no lock bars thee, no magic spell 
drives thee back. Daughter of the dust, thou standest 
alone with night in the chamber where, pale and num- 
berless, the hosts of space have gathered round the seer! 


396 


ZANONI. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Des Erdenlebens 

Schweres Traumbild sinkt, und sinkt, und sinkt.i 

Das Ideal und das Lebens. 

She stood within the chamber, and gazed around her; 
no signs by which an inquisitor of old could have detected 
the scholar of the Black Art were visible. No cruci- 
bles and caldrons, no brass-bound volumes and ciphered 
girdles, no skulls and cross-bones. Quietly streamed 
the broad moonlight through the desolate chamber with 
its bare, white walls. A few bunches of withered 
herbs, a few antique vessels of bronze, placed carelessly 
on a wooden form, were all which that curious gaze could 
identify with the pursuits of the absent owner. The 
magic, if it existed, dwelt in the artificer, and the mate- 
rials, to other hands, were but herbs and bronze. So is 
it ever with thy works and wonders, 0 Genius, — 
Seeker of the Stars ! Words themselves are the com- 
mon property of all men; yet, from words themselves. 
Thou, Architect of Immortalities, pilest up temples 
that shall outlive the Pyramids, and the very leaf of 
the Papyrus becomes a Shinar, stately with towers, 
round which the Deluge of Ages shall roar in vain ! 

But in that solitude has the Presence that there had 
invoked its wonders left no enchantment of its own? 
It seemed so; for as Viola stood in the chamber, she 
became sensible that some mysterious change was at 

1 The Dream Shape of the heavy earthly life sinks, and sinks, 
ai;d sinks. 


ZANONI. 


397 


work within herself. Her blood coursed rapidly, and 
with a sensation of delight, through her veins, — she 
felt as if chains were falling from her limbs, as if cloud 
after cloud was rolling from her gaze. All the confused 
thoughts which had moved through her trance settled 
and centred themselves in one intense desire to see the 
Absent One, — to he with him. The monads that 
make up space and air seemed charged with a spiritual 
attraction, — to become a medium through which her 
spirit could pass from its clay, and confer with the spirit 
to which the unutterable desire compelled it. A 
faintness seized her; she tottered to the seat on which 
the vessels and herbs were placed, and, as she bent 
down, she saw in one of the vessels a small vase of 
crystal. By a mechanical and involuntary impulse, her 
hand seized the vase; she opened it, and the volatile 
essence it contained sparkled up, and spread through 
the room a powerful and delicious fragrance. She 
inhaled the odor, she laved her temples with the 
liquid, and suddenly her life seemed to spring up from 
the previous faintness, — to spring, to soar, to float, to 
dilate upon the wings of a bird. The room vanished 
from her eyes. Away, away, over lands and seas and 
space on the rushing desire flies the disprisoned mind ! 

Upon a stratum, not of this world, stood the world- 
born shapes of the sons of Science, upon an embryo 
world, upon a crude, wan, attenuated mass of matter,, 
one of the Nebulae, which the suns of the myriad sys- 
tems throw off as they roll round the Creator’s throne 

1 “ Astronomy instructs us that, in the original condition of the 
solar system, the sun was the nucleus of a nebulosity or luminous 
mass which revolved on its axis, and extended far beyond the 
orbits of all the planets, — the planets as yet having no existence. 
Its temperature gradually diminished, and, becoming contracted by 


398 


ZANONI. 


to become themselves new worlds of symmetry and glory , 
— planets and suns that forever and forever shall in 
their turn multiply their shining race, and he the 
fathers of suns and planets yet to come. 

There, in that enormous solitude of an infant world, 
which thousands and thousands of years can alone ripen 
into form, the spirit of Viola beheld the shape of 
Zanoni, or rather the likeness, the simulacrun, the 
LEMUR of his shape, not its human and corporeal sub- 
stance, — as if, like hers, the Intelligence was parted 
from the Clay, — and as the sun, while it revolves and 
glows, had cast off into remotest space that nebular 
image of itself, so the thing of earth, in the action of 
its more luminous and enduring being, had thrown its 
likeness into that new-born stranger of the heavens. 
There stood the phantom, — a phantom Mejnour, by its 
side. In the gigantic chaos around raved and struggled 
the kindling elements; water and fire, darkness and 
light, at war, — vapor and cloud hardening into moun- 
tains, and the Breath of Life moving like a steadfast 
splendor over all. 

As the dreamer looked, and shivered, she beheld that 

cooling, the rotation increased in rapidity, and zones of nebulosity 
were successively thrown off, in consequence of the centrifugal force 
overpowering the central attraction. The condensation of these 
separate masses constituted the planets and satellites. But this 
view of the conversion of gaseous matter into planetary bodies is 
not limited to our own system ; it extends to the formation of the 
innumerable suns and worlds which are distributed throughout the 
universe. The sublime discoveries of modern astronomers have 
shown that every part of the realms of space abounds in large 
expansions of attenuated matter termed nehuloe, which are irregu- 
larly reflective of light, of various figures, and in different states of 
condensation, from that of a diffused, luminous mass to suns and 
planets like our own.” — F rom Mantell’s eloquent and delightfiC 
work, entitled “ The Wonders of Geology,” vol. i. p. 22. 


ZANONI. 


399 


even there the two phantoms of humanity were not 
alone. Dim monster-forms that that disordered chaos 
alone could engender, the first reptile Colossal race that 
wreathe and crawl through the earliest stratum of a 
world laboring into life, coiled in the oozing matter or 
hovered through the meteorous vapors. But these the 
two seekers seemed not to heed; their gaze was fixed 
intent upon an object in the farthest space. With the 
eyes of the spirit, Viola followed theirs; with a terror 
far greater than the chaos and its hideous inhabitants 
produced, she beheld a shadowy likeness of the very 
room in which her form yet dwelt, its white walls, the 
moonshine sleeping on its floor, its open casement, with 
the quiet roofs and domes of Venice looming over the 
sea that sighed below, — and in that room the ghost- 
like image of herself! This double phantom — here 
herself a phantom , gazing there upon a phantom-self — 
had in it a horror which no words can tell, no length 
of life forego. 

But presently she saw this image of herself rise 
slowly, leave the room with its noiseless feet: it passes 
the corridor, it kneels by a cradle ! Heaven of 
Heaven! she beholds her child! — still with its won- 
drous, child-like beauty and its silent, wakeful eyes. 
But beside that cradle there sits cowering a mantled, 
shadowy form, — the more fearful and ghastly from its 
indistinct and unsubstantial gloom. The walls of that 
chamber seem to open as the scene of a theatre. A 
grim dungeon; streets through which pour shadowy 
crowds; wrath and hatred, and the aspect of demons in 
their ghastly visages; a place of death; a murderous 
instrument; a shamble-house of human flesh; herself; 
her child, — all, all, rapid phantasmagoria, chased each 
other. Suddenly the phantom-Zanoni turned, it seemed 


400 


ZANONI. 


to perceive herself, — her second self. It sprang towards 
her; her spirit could bear no more. She shrieked, she 
woke. She found that in truth she had left that dismal 
chamber; the cradle was before her, the child! all 
— all as that trance had seen it, and, vanishing into air, 
even that dark, formless Thing! 

“My child! my child! thy mother shall save thee 
yet! ” 


ZANONI. 


401 


CHAPTEE VIII. 


Qni ? Toi m’abandonner ! Ou vas-tu 1 Non ! demeure, 
Demeure ! ^ 

La Harpe, Le Comte de WarwicJc, Act 3, sc. 5. 

LETTER FROM VIOLA TO ZANONI. 

“It has come to this! — I am the first to part I I, the 
unfaithful one, bid thee farewell forever. When thine eyes 
fall upon this writing thou wilt know me as one of the dead. 
For thou that wert, and still art my life, — I am lost to thee ! 
0 lover I O husband I 0 still worshipped and adored 1 if 
thou hast ever loved me, if thou canst still pity, seek not to 
discover the steps that fly thee. If thy charms can detect and 
tract me, spare me, spare our child 1 Zanoni, I will rear it to 
love thee, to call thee father 1 Zanoni, its young lips shall 
pray for thee ! Ah, spare thy child, for infants are the saints 
of earth, and their mediation may be heard on high ! 
Shall I tell thee why I part?. No ; thou, the wisely-terrible, 
canst divine what the hand trembles to record; and while I 
shudder at thy power, — while it is thy power I fly (our 
child upon my bosom), — it comforts me still to think that 
thy power can read the heart ! Thou knowest that it is the 
faithful mother that writes to thee, it is not the faithless wife ! 
Is there sin in thy knowledge, Zanoni ? Sin must have 
sorrow ; and it were sweet — oh, how sweet — to be thy com- 
forter. But the child, the infant, the soul that looks to mine 
for its shield I — magician, I wrest from thee that soul 1 
Pardon, pardon, if my words wrong thee. See, I fall on my 
knees to write the rest ! 

1 Who 1 Thou abandon me ! — where goest thou 1 No ! stay, 
stay! 


402 


ZANONI. 


“ Why did I never recoil before from thy mysterious lore ; 
why did the very strangeness of thine unearthly life only 
fascinate me with a delightful fear ? Because, if thou wert 
sorcerer or angel-demon, there was no peril to other but 
myself : and none to me, for my love was my heavenliest 
part ; and my ignorance in all things, except the art to love 
thee, repelled every thought that was not bright and glorious 
as thine image to my eyes. But now there is another ! Look ! 
why does it watch me thus, — why that never-sleeping, earnest, 
rebuking gaze ? Have thy spells encompassed it already ] 
Hast thou marked it, cruel one, for the terrors of thy unutter- 
able art 1 Do not madden me, — do not madden me ! — 
unbind the spell ! 

“ Hark ! the oars without 1 They come, — they come, to 
bear me from thee 1 I look round, and methinks that I see 
thee everywhere. Thou speakest to me from every shadow, 
from every star. There, by the casement, thy lips last 
pressed mine ; there, there by that threshold didst thou turn 
again, and thy smile seemed so trustingly to confide in me 1 
Zanoni — husband 1 — Twill stay! I cannot part from thee! 
Ho, no I I will go to the room where thy dear voice, with its 
gentle music, assuaged the pangs of travail! — where, heard 
through the thrilling darkness, it first whispered to my ear, 
* Viola, thou art a mother!’ A mother! — yes, I rise from 
my knees, — I cm a mother ! They come ! I am firm ; 
farewell ! ” 

Yes; thus suddenly, thus cruelly, whether in the 
delirium of blind and unreasoning superstition, or in 
the resolve of that conviction which springs from duty, 
the being for whom he had resigned so much of empire 
and of glory forsook Zanoni. This desertion, never 
foreseen, never anticipated, was yet but the constant 
fate that attends those who would place Mind beyond 
the earth, and yet treasure the Heart within it. Igno- 
rance everlastingly shall recoil from knowledge. But 
never yet, from nobler and purer motives of self-sacri- 


ZANONI. 


403 


fice, did human love link itself to another, than did the 
forsaking wife now abandon the absent. For rightly 
had she said that it was not the faithless wife, it was 
the faithful mother that fled from all in which her 
earthly happiness was centred. 

As long as the passion and fervor that impelled the 
act animated her with false fever, she clasped her infant 
to her breast, and was consoled, — resigned. But what 
bitter doubt of her own conduct, what icy pang of 
remorse shot through her heart, when, as they rested 
for a few hours on the road to Leghorn, she heard the 
woman who accompanied herself and Glyndon pray for 
safety to reach her husband’s side, and strength to 
share the perils that would meet her there ! Terrible 
contrast to her own desertion! She shrunk into the 
darkness of her own heart, — and then no voice from 
within consoled her. 


404 


ZANONI. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Zukunft hast du mir gegeben, 

Doch du nehmst den Augenblick.i 

Kassandra. , 

" Mejistour, behold thy work! Out, out upon our little 
vanities of wisdom! — out upon our ages of lore and life ! 
To save her from Peril I left her presence, and the 
Peril has seized her in its grasp ! ” 

“ Chide not thy wisdom hut thy passions ! Abandon, 
thine idle hope of the love of woman. See, for those 
who would unite the lofty with the lowly, the inevi- 
table curse ; thy very nature uncomprehended, — thy 
sacrifices unguessed. The lowly one views but in the 
lofty a necromancer or a fiend. Titan, canst thou 
weep 1 ” 

“I know it now, I see it all! It was her spirit 
that stood beside our own, and escaped my airy clasp! 
O strong desire of motherhood and nature! unveiling 
all our secrets, piercing space and traversing worlds! — 
Mejnour, what awful learning lies hid in the ignorance 
of the heart that loves ! ” 

“The heart,” answered the mystic, coldly; “ay, 
for five thousand years I have ransacked the mysteries 
of creation, but I have not yet discovered* all the won- 
ders in the heart of the simplest boor! ” 

“ Yet our solemn rites deceived us not; the prophet- 
shadows, dark with terror and red with blood, still 

1 Futurity hast thou given to me, ~ yet thou takest from me 
the Moment. 


ZANONI. 


405 - 


foretold that, even in the dungeon, and before the^ 
deathsman, I, — T had the power to save them both! ” 

“ But at some unconjectured and most fatal sacrifice to; 
thyself. ” 

“To myself! Icy sage, there is no self in love! I 
go. Nay, alone: I want thee not. I want now no 
other guide but the human instincts of aifection. No 
cave so dark,_ no solitude so vast, as to conceal her. 
Though mine art fail me ; though the stars heed me not; 
though space, with its shining myriads, is again to me 
but the azure void, — I return but to love and youth 
and hope ! When have they ever failed to triumph and 
to save! ** 




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BOOK VII. 


THE REIGN OF TERROR. 


CHAPTER I. 

Qui suis-je, moi qu’on accuse 1 Un esclave de la Liberte, un 
martyr vivant de la Republique.^ — Discours de Robespierre, 
8 Thermidor. 

It roars, — the River of Hell, whose first outbreak 
was chanted as the gush of a channel to Elysium. How 
burst into blossoming hopes fair hearts that had nour^ 
ished themselves on the diamond dews of the rosy dawn, 
when Liberty came from the dark ocean, and the arms 
of decrepit Thraldom, — Aurora from the bed of Tithon! 
Hopes ! ye have ripened into fruit, and the fruit is gore 
and ashes! Beautiful Roland, eloquent Vergniaud, 
visionary Condorcet, high-hearted Malesherbes! — wits, 
philosophers, statesmen, patriots, — dreamers! behold 
the millennium for which ye dared and labored ! 

I invoke the ghosts! Saturn hath devoured his chil- 
dren,^ and lives alone, — in his true name of Moloch! 

It is the Reign of Terror, with Robespierre the king. 
The struggles between the boa and the lion are past: 

1 Who am I, — I whom they accuse A slave of Liberty, — a 
living martyr for the Republic. 

^ La Revolution est comme Saturne, elle devorera tons ses 
enfans.” — Vergniaud. 


408 


ZANONI. 


the boa has consumed the lion, and is heavy with the 
gorge, — Dan ton has fallen, and Camille Desmoulins. 
Danton had said before his death, “ The poltroon Robes- 
pierre, — I alone could have saved him.” From that 
hour, indeed, the blood of the dead giant clouded the 
craft of “ Maximilieri the Incorruptible,” as at last, 
amidst the din of the roused Convention, it choked his 
voice. ^ If, after that last sacrifice, essential, perhaps, 
to his safety, Robespierre had proclaimed the close of 
the Reign of Terror, and acted upon the mercy which 
Danton had begun to preach, he might have lived and 
died a monarch. But the prisons continued to reek, 
— the glaive to fall ; and Robespierre perceived not that 
his mobs were glutted to satiety with death, and the 
strongest excitement a chief could give would be a 
return from devils into men. 

We are transported to a room in the house of Citizen 
Dupleix, the menuisieVy in the month of July, 1794; 
or, in the calendar of the Revolutionists, it was the 
Thermidor of the Second Year of the Republic, One 
and Indivisible ! Though the room was small, it was fur- 
nished and decorated with a minute and careful effort at 
elegance and refinement. It seemed, indeed, the desire 
of the owner to avoid at once what was mean and rude, 
and what was luxurious and voluptuous. It was a trim, 
orderly, precise grace that shaped the classic chairs, 
arranged the ample draperies, sank the frameless mirrors 
into the wall, placed bust and bronze on their pedestals, 
and filled up the niches here and there with well-bound 

1 “ Le sang de Danton t’etouffe ! ” (the blood of Danton chokes 
thee ! ) said Gamier de I’Aube, when, on the fatal 9th of Thermi- 
dor, Robespierre gasped feebly forth, “ Pour la derniere fois. 
President des Assassins, je te demande la parole.” (For the last 
time. President of Assassins, I demand to speak.) 


ZANONI. 


409 


books, filed regularly in their appointed ranks. An 
observer would have said, “ This man wishes to imply 
to you, — I am not rich; I am not ostentatious; I am 
not luxurious; I am no indolent Sybarite, with couches 
of down, and pictures that provoke the sense; I am no 
haughty noble, with spacious halls, and galleries that 
awe the echo. But so much the greater is my merit if 
I disdain these excesses of the ease or the pride, since I 
love the elegant, and have a taste! Others may be 
simple and honest, from the very coarseness of their 
habits; if I, with so much refinement and delicacy, am 
simple and honest, — reflect, and admire me ! ” 

On the walls of this chamber hung many portraits, 
most of them represented but one face ; on the formal 
pedestals were grouped many busts, most of them 
sculptured but one head. In that small chamber Ego- 
tism sat supreme, and made the Arts its looking-glasses. 
Erect in a chair, before a large table spread with letters, 
sat the original of bust and canvas, the owner of the 
apartment. He was alone, yet he sat erect, formal, 
stiff, precise, as if in his very home he was not at ease. 
His dress was in harmony with his posture and his 
chamber; it affected a neatness of its own, — foreign both 
to the sumptuous fashions of the deposed nobles, and 
the filthy ruggedness of the sans-culottes. Frizzled and 
coiffe, not a hair was out of order, not a speck lodged 
on the sleek surface of the blue coat, not a wrinkle 
crumpled the snowy vest, with its under-relief of deli- 
cate pink. At the first glance, you might have seen in 
that face nothing but the ill-favored features of a sickly 
countenance; at a second glance, you would have per- 
ceived that it had a power, a character of its own. Tlie 
forehead; though low and compressed, was not without 
that appearance of thought and intelligence which, it 


410 


ZANONI. 


may be observed, that breadth between the eyebrows 
almost invariably gives; the lips were firm and tightly 
drawn together, yet ever and anon they trembled, and 
writhed restlessly. The eyes, sullen and gloomy, were 
yet piercing, and full of a concentrated vigor that did 
not seem supported by the thin, feeble frame, or the 
green lividness of the hues, which told of anxiety and 
disease. 

Such was Maximilien Eobespierre ; such the chamber 
over the menuisier’’ s shop, whence issued the edicts 
that launched armies on their career of glory, and 
ordained an artificial conduit to carry off the blood 
that deluged the metropolis of the most martial people 
in the globe ! Such was the man who had resigned a 
judicial appointment (the early object of his ambition) 
rather than violate his philanthropical principles by 
subscribing to the death of a single fellow-creature; 
such was the virgin enemy to capital punishments; 
and such, Butcher-Dictator now, was the man whose 
pure and rigid manners, whose incorruptible honesty, 
whose hatred of the excesses that tempt to love and wine, 
would, had he died five years earlier, have left him the 
model for prudent fathers and careful citizens to place 
before their sons. Such was the man who seemed to 
have no vice, till circumstance, that hotbed, brought 
forth the two which, in ordinary times, lie ever the 
deepest and most latent in a man’s heart, — Cowardice 
and Envy. To one of these sources is to be traced every 
murder that master-fiend committed. His cowardice 
was of a peculiar and strange sort; for it was accom- 
panied with the most unscrupulous and determined willy 
— a will that Napoleon reverenced; a will of iron, and 
yet nerves of aspen. Mentally, he was a hero, — physi- 
cally, a dastard. When the veriest shadow of danger 


ZANONI. 


411 


threatened his person, the frame cowered, but the will 
swept the danger to the slaughter-house. So there he 
sat, bolt upright, — his small, lean fingers clenched 
convulsively; his sullen eyes straining into space, their 
whites yellowed with streaks of corrupt blood; his ears 
literally moving to and fro, like the ignobler animals’, 
to catch every sound, — a Dionysius in his cave ; but 
his posture decorous and collected, and -every formal 
hair in its frizzled place. 

“Yes, yes,” he said in a muttered tone, “I hear 
them; my good Jacobins are at their post on the stairs. 
Pity they swear so! I have a law against oaths, — the 
manners of the poor and virtuous people must be 
reformed. When all is safe, an example or two amongst 
those good Jacobins would make effect. Faithful fel- , 
lows, how they love me! Hum! — what an oath was 
that! — they need not swear so loud, — upon the very 
staircase, too! It detracts from my reputation. Ha! 
steps! ” 

The soliloquist glanced at the opposite mirror, and 
took up a volume; he seemed absorbed in its contents, 
as a tall fellow, a bludgeon in his hand, a girdle adorned 
with pistols round his waist, opened the door, and 
announced two visitors. The one was a young man, 
said to resemble Kobespierre in person, but of a far 
more decided and resolute expression of countenance. 
He entered first, and, looking over the volume in Eobes- 
pierre’s hand, for the latter seemed still intent on his 
lecture, exclaimed, — 

“ What! Kousseau’s Heloi’se? A love-tale! ” 

“ Dear Payan, it is not the love, — it is the philosophy 
that charms me. What noble sentiments ! — what ardor 
of virtue! If Jean Jacques had but lived to see this 
day!” 


412 


ZANONI. 


While the Dictator thus commented on his favorite 
author, whom in his orations he labored hard to imitate, 
the second visitor was wheeled into the room in a chair. 
This man was also in what, to most, is the prime of life, 
— namely, about thirty-eight; but he was literally 
dead in the lower limbs : crippled, paralytic, distorted, 
he was yet, as the time soon came to tell him, — a Her- 
cules in Crime! But the sweetest of human smiles 
dwelt upon his lips; a beauty almost angelic character- 
ized his features; ^ an inexpressible aspect of kindness, 
and the resignation of suffering but cheerful benignity, 
stole into the hearts of those who for the first time 
beheld him. With the most caressing, silver, flute-like 
voice, Citizen Couthon saluted the admirer of Jean 
, Jacques. 

“Nay, — do not say that it is not the love that attracts 
thee ; it u the love ! but not the gross, sensual attach- 
ment of man for woman. No! the sublime affection for 
the whole human race, and indeed, for all that lives! ” 
And Citizen Couthon, bending down, fondled the 
little spaniel that he invariably carried in his bosom, 
even to the Convention, as a vent for the exuberant 
sensibilities which overflowed his affectionate heart. ^ 

1 “ Figure d’ange^” says one of his contemporaries, in describing 
Couthon. The address, drawn up most probably by Payan (Ther- 
midor 9), after the arrest of Robespierre, thus mentions his crippled 
colleague: “ Couthon, ce citoyen vertueux, rCa que le cceur et 
la tete de vivans, mais qui les a brulants de patriotism e ” " 

2 This tenderness for some pet animal was by no means peculiar 
to Couthon ; it seems rather a common fashion with the gentle 
butchers of the Revolution. M. George Duval informs us (“ Sou- 
venirs de la Terreur,” vol. iii p. 183) that Chaumette had an aviary, 
to which be devoted his harmless leisure ; the murderous Fournier 


« Couthon, that virtuous citizen, who has but the head and heart of the living, 
yet possesses these all on flame with patriotism. 


ZA.NONI. 


413 


** Yes, for all that lives,” repeated Robespierre, ten- 
derly. “Good Couthon, — poor Couthon! Ah, the 
malice of men! — how we are misrepresented! To be 
calumniated as the executioners of our colleagues! Ah, 
it is that which pierces the heart! To be an object of 
terror to the enemies of our country, — that is noble; 
but to be an object of terror to the good, the patriotic, 
to those one loves and reveres, — that is the most ter- 
rible of human tortures at least, to a susceptible and 
honest heart ! ” ^ 

“ How I love to hear him! ” ejaculated Couthon. 

“Hem!” said Payan, with some impatience. “But 
now to business! ” 

“Ah, to business! ” said Robespierre, with a sinister 
.glance from his bloodshot eyes. 

“ The time has come,” said Payan, “ when the safety 
of the Republic demands a complete concentration of 
its power. These brawlers of the Comite du Salut 
Public can only destroy ; they cannot construct. They 
hated you, Maximilien, from the moment you attempted 
to replace anarchy by institutions. How they mock at 
the festival which proclaimed the acknowledgment of a 

tarried on his shoulders a pretty little squirrel, attached by a silver 
chain; Panis bestowed the superfluity of his affections upon two 
gold pheasants; and Marat, who M'ould not abate one of the three 
hundred thousand heads he demanded, reared doves ! Apropos of 
the spaniel of Couthon, Duval gives us an amusing anecdote of 
Sergent, not one of the least relentless agents of the massacre 
•of September. A lady came to implore his protection for one of 
her relations confined in the Abbaye He scarcely deigned to 
;speak to her. As she retired in despair, she trod by accident on 
the paw of his favorite spaniel. Sergent, turning round, enraged 
tind furious, exclaimed, “ Madam, have you no humanity ? ” 

^ Not to fatigue the reader with annotations, I may here observe 
that nearly every sentiment ascribed in the text to Robespierre is 
to be found expressed in his various discourses. 


414 


ZANONI. 


Supreme Being: they would have no ruler, even in 
heaven! Your clear and vigorous intellect saw that, 
having wrecked an old world, it became necessary to 
shape a new one. The first step towards construction 
must be to destroy the destroyers. While we delib- 
erate, your enemies act. Better this very night to attack 
the handful of gensdarmes that guard them, than to 
confront the battalions they may raise to-morrow. ” 

“Ko,” said Bobespierre, who recoiled before the 
determined spirit of Payan; “ I have a better and safer 
plan. This is the 6th of Thermidor ; on the 10th — on 
the 10th, the Convention go in a body to the FUe 
Decadaire. A mob shall form; the canonniers^ the 
troops of Henriot, the young pupils VEcole de Mars, 
shall mix in the crowd. Easy, then, to strike the con* 
spirators whom we shall designate to our agents. On 
the same day, too, Eouquier and Dumas shall not rest; 
and a sufficient number of ‘ the suspect ’ to maintain 
salutary awe, and keep up the revolutionary excitement^ 
shall perish by the glaive of the law. The 10th shall 
be the great day of action. Payan, of these last culprits, 
have you prepared a list? ” 

“ It is here,” returned Payan, laconically, presenting 
a paper. 

Robespierre glanced over it rapidly. “ Collot 
d’Herbois ! — good ! Barrere ! — ay , it was Barrere who 
said, ‘Let us strike: the dead alone never return.’^ 
Vadier, the savage jester! — good — good! Vadier of 
the Mountain. He has called me ‘ Mahomet ! * 
Scelerat ! blasphemer I ” 

“ Mahomet is coming to the Mountain,” said Couthon, 
with his silvery accent, as he caressed his spaniel. 

1 “ Frappons ! il n’y a que les morts qui ne revient pas.*' — 
Barrere. 


ZANONI. 


415 


“ But how is this 1 I do not see the name of Tallien ] 
Tallien, — I hate that man; that is,” said Robespierre, 
correcting himself with the hypocrisy or self-deceit 
which those who formed the council of this phrase' 
monger exhibited habitually, even among themselves, 
— “ that is, Virtue and our Country hate him ! There 
is no man in the whole Convention who inspires me 
with the same horror as Tallien. Couthon, I see a 
thousand Dantons where Tallien sits ! ” 

“ Tallien has the only head that belongs to this 
deformed body,” said Payan, whose ferocity and crime, 
like those of St. Just, were not unaccompanied by 
talents of no common order. “ Were it not better to 
draw away the head, to win, to buy him, for the time, 
and dispose of him better when left alone 1 He may 
hate youy but he loves money ! ” 

“No,” said Robespierre, writing down the name of 
Jean Lambert Tallien, with a slow hand that shaped 
each letter with stern distinctness ; “ that one head is my 
necessity ! ” 

“ I have a small list here,” said Couthon, sweetly, — 
“ a very small list. You are dealing with the Mountain; 
it is necessary to make a few examples in the Plain. 
These moderates are as straws which follow the wind. 
They turned against us yesterday in the Convention. 
A little terror will correct the weathercocks. Poor 
creatures,! I owe them no ill-will; I could weep for 
them. But before all, la chere patrie ! ” 

The terrible glance of Robespierre devoured the list 
which the man of sensibility submitted to him. “ Ah, 
these are well chosen ; men not of mark enough to be 
regretted, which is the best policy with the relics of that 
party ; some foreigners too, — yes, they have no parents 
in Paris. These wives and parents are beginning to 


416 


ZANONI. 


plead against us. Their complaints demoralize the 
guillotine ! ” 

Couthon is right, ” said Payan ; “ my list contains 
those whom it will be safer to despatch en masse in the 
crowd assembled at the Fete. His list selects those 
whom we may prudently consign to the law. Shall it 
not be signed at once h ” 

“ It is signed, ” said Robespierre, formally replacing 
his pen upon the inkstand. “ Now to more important 
matters. These deaths will create no excitement; but 
Collot d’Herbois, Bourdon De TOise, Tallien, ” the 
last name Robespierre gasped as he pronounced, “ they 
are the heads of parties. This is life or death to us as 
well as them. ” 

“ Their heads are the footstools to your curule chair, 
said Payan, in a half whisper. “ There is no danger 
if we are bold. Judges, juries, all have been your 
selection. You seize with one hand the army, with 
the other, the law. Your voice yet commands the 
people — ” 

“ The poor and virtuous people, ” murmured Robes- 
pierre. 

“ And even, ” continued Payan, “ if our design at the 
Fete fail us, we must not shrink from the resources still 
at our command. Reflect! Henriot, the general of the 
Parisian army, furnishes you with troops to arrest ; the 
Jacobin Club with a public to approve ; inexorable 
Dumas with judges who never acquit. We must be 
bold! ” 

And we are bold,” exclaimed Robespierre, with sud- 
den passion, and striking his hand on the table as he 
rose, with his crest erect, as a serpent in the act to 
strike. “ In seeing the multitude of vices that the 
revolutionary torrent mingles with civic virtues, I trem* 


ZANONI. 


417 


ble to be sullied in the eyes of posterity by the impure 
neighborhood of these perverse men who thrust them- 
selves among the sincere defenders of humanity. What! 
— they think to divide the country like a booty I I 
thank them for their hatred to all that is virtuous and 
worthy ! These men, ” — and he grasped the list of Payan 
in his hand, — “ these I — not we — have drawn the line 
of demarcation between themselves and the lovers of 
Prance ! ” 

“ True, we must reign alone ! ” muttered Payan ; “ in 
other words, the state needs unity of will; ” working, 
with his strong practical mind, the corollary from the 
logic of his word-compelling colleague. 

“ I will go to the Convention, ” continued Robespierre. 
“ I have absented myself too long, — lest I might seem 
to overawe the Republic that I have created. Away 
with such scruples ! I will prepare the people ! I will 
blast the traitors with a look ! ” 

He spoke with the terrible firmness of the orator that 
had never failed, — of the moral will that marched like 
a warrior on the cannon. At that instant he was inter- 
rupted ; a letter was brought to him : he opened it, — his 
face fell, he shook from limb to limb; it was one of the 
anonymous warnings by which the hate and revenge of 
those yet left alive to threaten tortured the death-giver. 

“ Thou art smeared, ” ran the lines, “ with the best 
blood of France. Read thy sentence ! I await the hour 
when the people shall knell thee to the doomsman. If 
my hope deceive me, if deferred too long, — hearken, 
read! This hand, which thine eyes shall search in vain 
to discover, shall pierce thy heart. I see thee every 
day, — I am with thee every day. At each hour my 
arm rises against thy breast. Wretch! live yet awhile, 
27 


418 


ZANONI. 


though but for few and miserable days — live to think of 
me ; sleep to dream of me ! Thy terror and thy thought 
of me are the heralds of thy doom. Adieu! this day 
itself I go forth to riot on thy fears ! ” ^ 

“ Your lists are not full enough ! ” said the tyrant, 
with a hollow voice, as the paper dropped from his 
trembling hand. “ G-ive them to me ! — give them to 
me! Think again, think again! Barrere is right — 
right ! ‘ Frappons ! il n’y a que les morts qui ne revient 

pas!^” 

1 See “ Papiers in^dits trouvds chez Eobespierre,” etc., vol. ii. p. 
155. (No. lx.) 


ZANONI. 


419 


CHAPTER II. 

La haine, dans ces Heux, n’a qu’un glaive assassin. 

Elle marche dans Fombre.^ 

La Harpe, Jeanne de Naples, Act iv. sc. 1. 

While such the designs and fears of Maximilien 
Robespierre, common danger, common hatred, what- 
ever was yet left of mercy or of virtue in the agents of 
the Revolution, served to unite strange opposites in 
hostility to the universal death-dealer. There was, 
indeed, an actual conspiracy at work against him among 
men little less bespattered than himself with innocent 
blood. But that conspiracy would have been idle of 
itself, despite the abilities of Tallien and Barras (the 
only men whom it comprised, worthy, by foresight and 
energy, the names of “ leaders” ). The sure and destroy- 
ing elements that gathered round the tyrant were Time 
and Nature; the one, which he no longer suited; the 
other, which he had outraged and stirred up in the 
human breast. The most atrocious party of the Revolu- 
tion, the followers of Hebert, gone to his last account, 
the butcher-atheists, who, in desecrating heaven and 
earth, still arrogated inviolable sanctity to themselves, 
were equally enraged at the execution of their filthy 
chief, and the proclamation of a Supreme Being. The 
populace, brutal as it had been, started as from a dream 
of blood, when their huge idol, Danton, no longer filled 
the stage of terror, rendering crime popular by that com- 

. 1 Hate, in these regions, has but the sword of the assassin. 
She moves in the shade. 


420 


Z AN ONI. 


bination of careless frankness and eloquent energy which, 
endears their heroes to the herd. The glaive of the- 
guillotine had turned against themselves. They had 
yelled and shouted, and sung and danced, when the ven- 
erable age, or the gallant youth, of aristocracy or letters, 
passed by their streets in the dismal tumbrils ; but they 
shut up their shops, and murmured to each other, when 
their own order was invaded, and tailors and cobblers, 
and journeymen and laborers, were huddled off to the 
embraces of the “ Holy Mother Guillotine, ” with as little 
ceremony as if they had been the Montmorencies or the 
La Tremouilles, the Malesherbes or the Lavoisiers. “ At 
this time, ” said Couthon, j ustly, “ Les omhres de Danton 
d’’ Hebert, de Chaumette, se promenent parmi nous I ” ^ 
Among those who had shared the doctrines, and who 
now dreaded the fate of the atheist Hebert, was the 
painter, Jean Nicot. Mortified and enraged to find 
that, by the death of his patron, his career was closed; 
and that, in the zenith of the Kevolution for which he 
had labored, he was lurking in caves and cellars, more 
poor, more obscure, more despicable than he had been 
at the commencement, — not daring to exercise even his 
art, and fearful every hour that his name would swell 
the lists of the condemned, — he was naturally one of 
the bitterest enemies of Robespierre and his govern- 
ment. He held secret meetings with Collot d’Herbois, 
who was animated by the same spirit; and with the 
creeping and furtive craft that characterized his abilities, 
he contrived, undetected, to disseminate tracts and invec- 
tives against the Dictator, and to prepare, amidst “ the 
poor and virtuous people,” the train for the grand 
explosion. But still so firm to the eyes, even of pro- 

1 The shades of Danton, Hebert, and Chaumette walk amongst 

us. 


ZANONI. 


421 


founder politicians than Jean Nicot, appeared the sullen 
power of the incorruptible Maximilien; so timorous was 
the movement against him, — that Nicot, in common 
with many others, placed his hopes rather in the dagger 
of the assassin than the revolt of the multitude. But 
Nicot, though not actually a coward, shrunk himself 
from braving the fate of the martyr; he had sense 
enough to see that, though all parties might rejoice in 
the assassination, all parties would probably concur in 
beheading the assassin. He had not the virtue to 
become a Brutus. His object was to inspire a proxy- 
Brutus ; and in the centre of that inflammable popula- 
tion this was no improbable hope. 

Amongst those loudest and sternest against the reign 
of blood ; amongst those most disenchanted of the Eevo- 
lution ; amongst those most appalled by its excesses, — 
was, as might be expected, the Englishman, Clarence 
Glyndon. The wit and accomplishments, the uncer- 
tain virtues that had lighted with fitful gleams the 
mind of Camille Desmoulins, had fascinated Glyndon 
more than the qualities of any other agent in the Revo- 
lution. And when (for Camille Desmoulins had a 
heart, which seemed dead or dormant in most of his 
contemporaries) that vivid child of genius 'and of error, 
shocked at the massacre of the Girondins, and repentant 
of his own efforts against them, began to rouse the 
serpent malice of Robespierre by new doctrines of mercy 
and toleration, Glyndon espoused his views with his 
whole strength and soul. Camille Desmoulins perished, 
and Glyndon, hopeless at once of his own life and the 
cause of humanity, from that time sought only the 
occasion of flight from the devouring Golgotha. He 
had two lives to heed besides his own; for them he 
trembled, and for them he schemed and plotted the 


422 


ZANONI. 


means of escape. Though Glyndon hated the principles, 
the party and the vices of Nicot, he yet extended to 
the painter’s penury the means of subsistence; and Jean 
Nicot, in return, designed to exalt Glyndon to that 
very immortality of a Brutus from which he modestly 
recoiled himself. He founded his designs on the physi- 
cal courage, on the wild and unsettled fancies of the 
English artist, and on the vehement hate and indignant 
loathing with which he openly regarded the govermnent 
of Maximilien. 

At the same hour, on the same day in July, in which 
Kohespierre conferred (as we have seen) with his allies, 
two persons were seated in a small room in one of the 
streets leading out of the Rue St. Honore; the one, a 
man, appeared listening impatiently, and with a sullen 
brow, to his companion, a woman of singular beauty, 
but with a bold and reckless expression, and her face 
as she spoke was animated by the passions of a half- 
savage and vehement nature. 

“Englishman,” said the woman, “beware! — you 
know that, whether in flight or at the place of death, I 
would brave all to be by your side, — you know that t 
Speak! ” 

“ Well, Fillide; did I ever doubt your fidelity? ” 

“Doubt it you cannot, — betray it you may. You 
tell me that in flight you must have a companion besides 
myself, and that companion is a female. It shall not 
be!” 

1 None were more opposed to the Hebertists than Camille Des- 
moulins and his friends. It is curious and amusing to see these 
leaders of the mob, calling the mob “ the people ” one day, and the 
“ canaille ” the next, according as it suits them. “ I know,” says 
Camille, “that they (the He'bertists) have all the canaille with 
them.” — (Ils ont toute la canaille pour eux. ) 


ZANONI, 


423 


“Shall not!” 

“ It shall not! ” repeated Eillide, firmly, and folding 
her arms across her breast. Before Glyndon could reply, 
a slight knock at the door was heard, and Nicot opened 
the latch and entered. 

Eillide sank into her chair, and, leaning her face on 
her hands, appeared unheeding of the intruder and the 
conversation that ensued. 

“I cannot bid thee good-day, Gl^mdon,” said Nicot, 
as in his sans-culotte fashion he strode towards the 
artist, his ragged hat on his head, his hands in his 
pockets, and the heard of a week^s growth upon his chin, 

> — cannot hid thee good-day; for while the tyrant 
lives, evil is every sun that sheds its beams on France.” 

“It is true; what then? We have sown the wind, 
we must reap the whirlwind.” 

“ And yet,” said Nicot, apparently not heeding the 
reply, and as if musingly to himself, “ it is strange to 
think that the butcher is as mortal as the butchered; 
that his life hangs on as slight a thread ; that between 
the cuticle and the heart .there is as short a passage, — 
that, in short, one blow can free France and redeem 
mankind! ” 

Glyndon surveyed the speaker with a careless and 
haughty scorn, and made no answer. 

“And,” proceeded Nicot, “I have sometimes looked 
round for the man born for this destiny, and whenever I 
have done so, my steps have led me hither! ” 

“ Should they not rather have led thee to the side of 
Maximilien Robespierre? ” said Glyndon, with a sneer. 

“No,” returned Nicot, coldly, — “no; for I am a 
* suspect: ^ I could not mix with his train; I could not 
approach within a hundred yards of his person, but I 
should be seized; you^ as yet, are safe. Hear me! ” — ' 


424 


ZANONI. 


and his voice became earnest and expressive, — “hear 
me! There seems danger in this action; there is none. 
I have been with Collot d’Herbois and Bilaud-Varennes ; 
they will hold him harmless who strikes the blow ; 
the populace would run to thy support; the Convention 
would hail thee as their deliverer, the — ” 

“ Hold, man ! How darest thou couple my name 
with the act of an assassin 1 Let the tocsin sound from 
yonder tower, to a war between Humanity and the 
Tyrant, and I will not be the last in the field; but 
liberty never yet acknowledged a defender in a felon. ” 

There was something so brave and noble in Glyndon’s 
voice, mien, and manner, as he thus spoke, that Nicot 
at once was silenced; at once he saw that he had mis- 
judged the man. 

“No,” said Fillide, lifting her face from her hands, 
— “ no I your friend has a wiser scheme in preparation ; 
he would leave you wolves to mangle each other. He 
is right ; but — ” 

“Flight!” exclaimed Nicot; “ is it possible 1 Flight; 
how ? — when ? — by what means ? All France begirt 
with spies and guards! Flight! would to Heaven it 
were in our power! ” 

“ Dost thou, too, desire to escape the blessed 
Revolution ? ” 

“ Desire! Oh! ” cried Nicot, suddenly, and, falling 
down, he clasped Glyndon’s knees, — “ oh, save me with 
thyself! My life is a torture; every moment the guillo- 
tine frowns before me. 1 know that my hours are num- 
bered; I know that the tryant waits but his time to 
write my name in his inexorable list; I know that Rene 
Dumas, the judge who never pardons, has, from the 
first, resolved upon my death. Oh, Glyndon, by our 
old friendship, by our common art, by thy loyal English 


ZANONI. 


425 


faith and good English heart, let me share thy flight! ” 

“ If thou wilt, so be it. ” 

“Thanks! — my whole life shall thank thee. But 
how hast thou prepared the means, the passports, the 
disguise, the — ” 

“ I will tell thee. Thou knowest C , of the Con- 

vention, — he has power, and he is covetous. ‘ Qu’on 
me meprise^ pourvu que je dine^^ ^ said he, when 
reproached for his avarice.” 

“Well?” 

“By the help of this sturdy republican, who has 
friends enough in the Comite^ I have obtained the means 
necessary for flight; I have purchased them. For a 
consideration I can procure thy passport also.” 

“ Thy riches, then, are not in assignats ? ” 

“ No; I have gold enough for us all.” 

.And here Glyndon, beckoning Nicot into the next 
room, first briefly and rapidly detailed to him the plan 
proposed, and the disguises to be assumed conformably 
to the passports, and then added, “ In return for the 
service I render thee, grant me one favor, which I think 
is in thy power. Thou rememberest Viola Pisani ? ” 

“Ah, — remember, yes! — and the lover with whom 
she fled.” 

“ AvAfrom whom she is a fugitive now.” 

“ Indeed — what ! — I understand. Sacre bleu ! but 
you are a lucky fellow, cher confrere.'" 

“ Silence, man! with thy eternal prate of brotherhood 
and virtue, thou seemest never to believe in one kindly 
action, or one virtuous thought! ” 

Nicot bit his lip, and replied sullenly, “Experience 
is a great undeceiver. Humph! What service can I 
do thee with regard to the Italian ? ” 

1 Let them despise me, provided that I dine. 


426 


ZANONI. 


“ I have been accessory to her arrival in this city of 
snares and pitfalls. 1 cannot leave her alone amidst 
dangers from which neither innocence nor obscurity is 
a safeguard. In your blessed Kepublic, a good and 
unsuspected citizen, who casts a desire on any woman, 
maid or wife, has but to say, ‘ Be mine, or I denounce 
you! ’ In a word, Viola must share our flight.” 

“ What so easy ? I see your passports provide for 
her. ” 

“What so easy! What so difficult? This Fillide 
— would that I had never seen her! — would that I had 
never enslaved my soul to my senses! The love of an 
uneducated, violent, unprincipled woman, opens with a 
heaven, to merge in a hell! She is jealous as all the 
Furies; she will not hear of a female companion; and 
when once she sees the beauty of Viola! — I tremble to 
think of it. She is capable of any excess in the storm 
of her passions. ” 

“Aha, I know what such women are! My wife, 
Beatrice Sacchini, whom I took from Naples, when I 
failed with this very Viola, divorced me when my 
money failed, and, as the mistress of a judge, passes me 
in her carriage while I crawl through the streets. 
Plague on her! — but patience, patience! such is the lot 
of virtue. Would I were Kobespierre for a day! ” 

“Cease these tirades!” exclaimed Glyndon, impa- 
tiently ; “ and to the point. What would you advise ? 

“ Leave your Fillide behind.” 

“ Leave her to her own ignorance ; leave her unpro- 
tected even by the mind; leave her in the Saturnalia of 
Bape and Murder? No! I have sinned against her 
once. But come what may, I will not so basely desert 
one who, with all her errors, trusted her fate to my 
love.” 


ZANONI. 


427 


" You deserted her at Marseilles. ” 

“ True ; but I left her in safety, and I did not then 
believe her love to be so deep and faithful. I left her 
gold, and I imagined she would be easily consoled; but 
since then we have known danger together ! And now 
to leave her alone to that danger which she would never 
have incurred hut for devotion to me ! — no, that is 
impossible. A project occurs to me. Canst thou not say 
that thou hast a sister, a relative, or a benefactress, 
whom thou wouldst save 1 Can we not — till we have 
left France — make Fillide believe that Viola is one in 
whom thou only art interested ; and whom, for thy sake 
only, I permit to share in our escape 1 ” 

“ Ha, well thought of ! — certainly ! ” 

I will then appear to yield to Fillide ’s wishes, and 
resign the project, which she so resents, of saving the 
innocent object of her frantic jealousy. You, meanwhile, 
shall yourself entreat Fillide to intercede with me to ex- 
tend the means of escape to — ” 

“ To a lady (she knows I have no sister) who has aided 
me in my distress. Yes, I will manage all, never fear. 
One word more, — what has become of that Zanoni 1 ” 

“ Talk not of him, — I know not. ” 

“ Does he love this girl still ? ” 

“ It would seem so. She is his wife, the mother of 
his infant, who is with her. ” 

Wife ! — mother ! He loves her. Aha ! And 
why — ” 

“ No questions now. I will go and prepare Viola for 
the flight; you, meanwhile, return to Fillide.” 

“ But the address of the Neapolitan ? It is necessary 
I should know, lest Fillide inquire.” 

Kue M T , No. 27. Adieu.” 

Glyndon seized his hat and hastened from the house. 


428 


ZANONI. 


Nicot, left alone, seemed for a few moments buried in 
thought. “ Oho, ” he muttered to himself, “ can I not 
turn all this to my account ? Can I not avenge myself 
on thee, Zanoni, as I have so often sworn, — through 
thy wife and child ^ Can I not possess myself of thy 
gold, thy passports, and thy Fillide, hot Englishman, 
who wouldst humble me with thy loathed benefits, and 
who hast chucked me thine alms as to a beggar ? And 
Eillide, I love her : and thy gold, I love that more ! 
Puppets, I move your strings! ” 

He passed slowly into the chamber where Fillide yet 
sat, with gloomy thought on her brow and tears standing 
in her dark eyes. She looked up eagerly as the door 
opened, and turned from the rugged face of Nicot with 
an impatient movement of disappointment. 

“ Glyndon, ” said the painter, drawing a chair to 
Fillide ’s, “has left me to enliven your solitude, fair 
Italian. He is not jealous of the ugly Nicot ! — ha, ha ! 
— yet Nicot loved thee well once, when his fortunes 
were more fair. But enough of such past follies. ” 

“ Your friend, then, has left the house. Whither ? 
Ah, you look away ; you falter, — you cannot meet my 
eyes! Speak! I implore, I command thee, speak! ” 

“ Enfant! and what dost thou fear? ” 

“ Fear ! — yes, alas, I fear ! ” said the Italian ; and 
her whole frame seemed to shrink into itself as she fell 
once more back into her seat. 

Then, after a pause, she tossed the long hair from her 
eyes, and, starting up abruptly, paced the room with 
disordered strides. At length she stopped opposite to 
Nicot, laid her hand on his arm, drew him towards an 
escritoire, which she unlocked, and, opening a well, 
pointed to the gold that lay within, and said, “ Thou art 
poor, — thou lovest money ; take what thou wilt, but 


ZANONI. 429 

undeceive me. Who is this woman whom thy friend 
visits, — and does he love her ? ” 

Nicot’s eyes sparkled, and his hands opened and 
clenched, and clenched and opened, as he gazed upon the 
coins. But reluctantly resisting the impulse, he said, 
with an affected bitterness, “ Thinkest thou to bribe me ? 
— if so, it cannot be with gold. But what if he does 
love a rival ; what if he betrays thee ; what if, wearied 
by thy jealousies, he designs in his flight to leave thee 
behind, — would such knowledge make thee happier ? ” 

“Yes!” exclaimed the Italian, fiercely; “yes, for it 
would be happiness to hate and to be avenged! Oh, 
thou knowest not how sweet is hatred to those who have 
really loved ! ” 

“ But wilt thou swear, if I reveal to thee the secret, 
that thou wilt not betray me, — that thou wilt not fall, 
as women do, into weak tears and fond reproaches, when 
thy betrayer returns ? ” 

“ Tears, reproaches ! Bevenge hides itself in smiles ! ” 

“ Thou art a brave creature ! ” said Nicot, almost 
admiringly. “ One condition more : thy lover designs to 
fly with his new love, to leave thee to thy fate; if I 
prove this to thee, and if I give thee revenge against 
thy rival, wilt thou fly with me ? I love thee ! — I will 
wed thee ! ” 

Billide’s eyes flashed Are; she looked at him with 
unutterable disdain, and was silent. 

Hicot felt he had gone too far; and with that knowl- 
edge of the evil part of our nature which his own heart 
and association with crime had taught him, he resolved 
to trust the rest to the passions of the Italian, when 
raised to the height to which he was prepared to lead 
them. 

“ Pardon me, ” he said ; “ my love made me too pre 


430 


ZANONI. 


sumptuous ; and yet it is only that love, — my sympathy 
for thee, beautiful and betrayed, that can induce me to 
wrong, with my revelations, one whom I have regarded 
as a brother. I can depend upon thine oath to conceal 
all from Glyndon ? ” 

“ On my oath and my wrongs and my mountain 
blood! ” 

‘‘ Enough! get thy hat and mantle, and follow me. ” 

As Fillide left the room, Nicot’s eyes again rested on 
the gold ; it was much, — much more than he had dared 
to hope for; and as he peered into the well and opened 
the drawers, he perceived a packet of letters in the well- 
known hand of Camille Desmoulins. He seized — he 
opened the packet; his looks brightened as he glanced 
over a few sentences. “ This would give fifty Glyndons 
to the guillotine! ” he muttered, and thrust the packet 
into his bosom. 

0 artist ! — 0 haunted one ! — O erring genius ! — 
behold the two worst foos, — the False Ideal that knows 
no God, and the False Love that burns from the corrup- 
tion of the sanses, and takes no lustre from the soul ! 


ZANONI. 


431 


CHAPTER III. 

Liebe sonnt das Reich der Nacht.i 

Der Triumph der Liehe, 


LETTER FROM ZANONI TO MEJNOUR. 

Paris. 

Dost thou remember in the old time, when the Beautiful yet 
dwelt in Greece, how we two, in the vast Athenian Theatre, 
witnessed the birth of Words as undying as ourselves ? Dost 
thou remember the thrill of terror that ran through that 
mighty audience, when the wild Cassandra burst from her 
awful silence to shriek to her relentless god! How ghastly, 
at the entrance of the House of Atreus, about to become her 
tomb, rang out her exclamations of foreboding woe : “ Dwell- 

ing abhorred of heaven ! — human shamble-house and floor 
blood-bespattered 1 ’’ ^ Dost thou remember how, amidst the 
breathless awe of those assembled thousands, I drew close to 
thee, and whispered, “ Verily, no prophet like the poet! This 
scene of fabled horror comes to me as a dream, shadowing 
forth some likeness in my own remoter future ! ” As I enter 
this slaughter-house that scene returns to me, and I hearken 
to the voice of Cassandra ringing in my ears. A solemn and 
warning dread gathers round me, as if I too were come to find 
a grave, and “the Net of Hades” had already entangled me 
in its web! What dark treasure-houses of vicissitude and 
woe are our memories become! What our lives, but the 
chronicles of unrelenting death ! It seems to me as yesterday 
when I stood in the streets of this city of the Gaul, as they 
shone with plumed chivalry, and the air rustled with silken 
braveries. Young Louis, the monarch and the lover, was 
victor of the Tournament at the Carousel ; and all France felt 
herself splendid in the splendor of her gorgeous chief ! Now 

1 Love illumes the realm of Night. ^ ^sch. Agam., 1098. 


432 


ZANONI. 


there is neither throne nor altar ; and what is in their stead 1 
I see it yonder — the guillotine! It is dismal to stand 
amidst the ruins of mouldering cities, to startle the serpent 
and the lizard amidst the wrecks of Persepolis and Thehes ; 
but more dismal still to stand as P — the stranger from 
Empires that have ceased to be — stand now amidst the yet 
ghastlier ruins of Law and Order, the shattering of mankind 
themselves 1 Yet here, even here, Love, the Beautifier, that 
hath led my steps, can walk with unshrinking hope through 
the wilderness of Death, Strange is the passion that makes 
a world in itself, that individualizes the One amidst the 
Multitude ; that, through all the changes of my solemn life, 
yet survives, though ambition and hate and anger are dead ; 
the one solitary angel, hovering over a universe of tombs on 
its two tremulous and human wings, — Hope and Fear I 

How is it, Mejnour, that, as my diviner .art abandoned me, 
— as, in my search for Viola, I was aided but by the ordinary 
instincts of the merest mortal, — how is it that I have never 
desponded, that I have felt in every difficulty the prevailing 
prescience that we should meet at last ? So cruelly was every 
vestige of her flight concealed from me, — so suddenly, so 
secretly had she fled, that all the spies, all the authorities of 
Venice, could give me no clew. All Italy I searched in vain! 
Her young home at Naples! — how still, in its humble cham- 
bers, there seemed to linger the fragrance of her ]3resence ! 
All the sublimest secrets of our lore failed me, — failed to 
bring her soul visible to mine ; yet morning and night, 
thou lone and childless one, morning and night, detached 
from myself, I can commune with my child ! There in that 
most blessed, typical, and mysterious of all relations. Nature 
herself appears to supply what Science would refuse. Space 
cannot separate the father’s watchful soul from the cradle of 
his first-born ! I know not of its resting-place and home, — 
my visions picture not the land, — only the small and tender 
life to which all space is as yet the heritage ! For to the infant, 
before reason dawns, — before man’s bad passions can dim the 
essence that it takes from the element it hath left, there is no 
peculiar country, no native city, and no mortal language. Its 


ZANONI. 


433 


soul as yet is the denizen of all airs and of every world ; and 
in space its soul meets with mine, — the child communes with 
the father! Cruel and forsaking one, — thou for whom I left 
the wisdom of the spheres ; thou whose fatal dower has been 
the weakness and terrors of humanity, — couldst thou think 
that young soul less safe on earth because I would lead it ever 
more up to heaven ! Didst thou think that I could have 
wronged mine own ? Didst thou not know that in its serenest 
eyes the life that I gave it spoke to warn, to upbraid the 
mother who would bind it to the darkness and pangs of the 
prison-house of clay ? Didst thou not feel that it was I who, 
permitted by the Heavens, shielded it from suffering and 
disease? And in its wondrous beauty, I blessed the holy 
medium through which, at last, my spirit might confer with 
thine ! 

And how have I tracked them hither ? I learned that thy 
pupil had been at Venice. I could not trace the young and 
gentle neophyte of Parthenope in the description of the hag- 
gard and savage visitor who had come to Viola before she 
fled ; but when I would have summoned his idea before me, 
it refused to obey ; and I knew then that his fate had become 
entwined with Viola’s. I have tracked him, then, to this 
Lazar House. I arrived but yesterday; I have not yet dis- 
covered him. 


I have just returned from their courts of justice, — dens 
where tigers arraign their prey. I find not whom I would 
seek. They are saved as yet ; but I recognize in the crimes 
of mortals the dark wisdom of the Everlasting. Mejnour, I 
see here, for the first time, how majestic and beauteous a thing 
is death ! Of what sublime virtues we robbed ourselves, when, 
in the thirst for virtue, we attained the art by which we can 
refuse to die I When in some happ}’" clime, where to breathe 
is to enjoy, the charnel-house swallows up the young and fair ; 
when in the noble pursuit of knowledge. Death comes to 
the student, and shuts out the enchanted land which was 
opening to his gaze, — how natural for us to desire to live; 
how natural to make perpetual life the first object of research! 

Oft 


434 


ZANONI. 


But here, from my tower of time, looking over the darksome 
past, and into the starry future, I learn how great hearts feel 
what sweetness and glory there is to die for the things they 
love ! I saw a father sacrificing himself for his son ; he was 
subjected to charges which a word of his could dispel, — he 
was mistaken for his boy. With what joy he seized the error, 
confessed the noble crimes of valor and fidelity which the son 
had indeed committed, and went to the doom, exulting that 
his death saved the life he had given, not in vain ! I saw 
women, young, delicate, in the bloom of their beautj’’ ; they 
had vowed themselves to the cloister. Hands smeared with 
the blood of saints opened the gate that had shut them from 
the world, and bade them go forth, forget their vows, forswear 
the Divine One these demons would depose, find lovers and 
helpmates, and be free. And some of these young hearts had 
loved, and even, though in struggles, loved yet. Did they 
forswear the vow ? Did the}’’ abandon the faith ? Did even 
love allure them? Mejnour, with one voice, they preferred 
to die. And whence comes this courage ? — because such 
hearts live in some more abstract and holier life than their own. 
But to live forever upon this earth is to live in nothing diviner 
than ourselves. Yes, even amidst this gory butcherdom, God, 
the Ever-living, vindicates to man the sanctity of His servant. 
Death ! 


Again I have seen thee in spirit ; I have seen and blessed • 
thee, my sweet child ! Dost thou not know me also in thy 
dreams ? Dost thou not feel the beating of my heart through 
the veil of thy rosy slumbers ? Dost thou not hear the wings 
of the brighter beings that I yet can conjure around thee, to 
watch, to nourish, and to save ? And when the spell fades at 
thy waking, when thine eyes open to the da}^, will they not 
look round for me, and ask thy mother, with their mute 
eloquence, “Why she has robbed thee of a father ? ” 

Woman, dost thou not repent thee ? Flying from imagi- 
nary fears, hast thou not come to the very lair of terror, where 
Danger sits visible and incarnate ? Oh, if we could but meet, 
wouldst thou not fall upon the bosom thou hast so wronged. 


ZANONI. 


‘ 435 


and feel, poor wanderer amidst the storms, as if thou hadst 
regained the shelter ? Mejnour, still my researches fail me. 
I mingle with all men, even their judges and their spies, but 
I cannot yet gain the clew. I know that she is here. I know 
it by an instinct; the breath of my child seems warmer and 
more familiar. 

They peer at me with venomous looks, as I pass through 
their streets. With a glance I disarm their malice, and 
fascinate the basilisks. Everywhere I see the track and scent 
the presence of the Ghostly One that dwells on the Threshold, 
and whose victims are the souls that would aspire, and can 
only fear. I see its dim shapelessness going before the men 
of blood, and marshalling their way. Eobespierre passed me 
with his furtive step. Those eyes of horror were gnawing 
into his heart. I looked down upon their senate ; the grim 
Phantom sat cowering on its floor. It hath taken up its 
abode in the city of Dread. And what in truth are these 
would-be builders of a new world ? Like the students who 
have vainly struggled after our supreme science, they have 
attempted what is beyond their power ; they have passed 
from this solid earth of usages and forms into the land of 
shadow, and its loathsome keeper has seized them as its prey. 
I looked into the tyrant’s shuddering soul, as it trembled past 
me. There, amidst the ruins of a thousand systems which 
aimed at virtue, sat Crime, and shivered at its desolation. 
Yet this man is the only Thinker, the only Aspirant, amongst 
them all. He still looks for a future of peace and mercy, to 
begin, — ay ! at what date ? When he has swept away every 
foe. Fool! new foes spring from every drop of blood. Led 
by the eyes of the Unutterable, he is walking to his doom. 

O Viola, thy innocence protects thee I Thou whom the 
sweet humanities of love shut out even from the dreams of 
aerial and spiritual beauty, making thy heart a universe of 
visions fairer than the wanderer over the rosy Hesperus can 
survey, — shall not the same pure affection encompass thee, 
even here, with a charmed atmosphere, and terror itself fall 
harmless on a life too innocent for wisdom ? 


436 


ZANONL 


CHAPTER IV. 

Ombra piii che di notte, in cui di luce 
Raggio misto non e ; 

Ne pill il palagio appar, ne piii le sue 
Vestigia; ne dir puossi — egli qui fue.^ 

Ger. Lib., canto xvi, — Ixix. 

The clubs are noisy with clamorous frenzy ; the leaders 
are grim with schemes. Black Henriot flies here and 
there, muttering to his armed troops, “Robespierre, 
your beloved, is in danger! ” Robespierre stalks per- 
turbed, his list of victims swelling every hour. Tallien, 
the Macduff to the doomed Macbeth, is whispering 
courage to his pale conspirators. Along the streets 
heavily roll the tumbrils. The shops are closed, — the 
people are gorged with gore, and will lap no more. And 
night after night, to the eighty theatres flock the chil- 
dren of the Revolution, to laugh at the quips of comedy, 
and weep gentle tears over imaginary woes! 

In a small chamber, in the heart of the city, sits the 
mother, watching over her child. It is quiet, happy 
noon; the sunlight, broken by the tall roofs in the 
narrow street, comes yet through the open casement, the 
impartial playfellow of the air, gleesome alike in temple 
and prison, hall and hovel ; as golden and as blithe, 
whether it laugh over the first hour of life, or quiver 

1 Darkness greater than of night, in which not a ray of light is 
mixed ; . . . The palace appears no more : not even a vestige, 
— nor can one say that it has been. 


ZANONI. 


437 


in its gay delight on the terror and agony of the last’ 
The child, where it lay at the feet of Viola, stretched 
ont its dimpled hands as if to clasp the dancing motes 
that revelled in the beam. The mother turned her eyes 
from the glory;. it saddened her yet more. She turned 
and sighed. 

Is this the same Viola who bloomed fairer than their 
own Idalia under the skies of Greece 1 How changed ! 
How pale and worn! She sat listlessly, her arms drop- 
ping on her knee ; the smile that was habitual to her lips 
was gone. A heavy, dull despondency, as if the life of 
life, were no more, seemed to weigh down her youth, 
and make it weary of that happy sun! In truth, her 
existence had languished away since it had wandered, 
as some melancholy stream, from the source that fed it. 
The sudden enthusiasm of fear or superstition that had 
almost, as if still in the unconscious movements of a 
dream, led her to fly from Zanoni, had ceased from the 
day which dawned upon her in a foreign land. Then 
— there — she felt that in the smile she had evermore 
abandoned lived her life. She did not repent, — she 
would not have recalled the impulse that winged her 
flight. Though the enthusiasm was gone, the supersti- 
tion yet remained; she still believed she had saved her 
child from that dark and guilty sorcery, concerning 
which the traditions of all lands are prodigal, but in 
none do they find such credulity, or excite such dread, 
as in the South of Italy. This impression was confirmed 
by the mysterious conversations of Glyndon, and by her 
own perception of the fearful change that had passed 
over one who represented himself as the victim of the 
enchanters. She did not, therefore, repent; but her 
very volition seemed gone. 

On their arrival at Paris, Viola saw her companion — 


438 


ZANONI. 


the faithful wife — no more. Ere three weeks were 
passed, husband and wife had ceased to live. 

And now, for the first time, the drudgeries of this 
hard earth claimed the beautiful Neapolitan. In that 
profession, giving voice and shape to poetry and song, in 
which her first years were passed, there is, while it lasts, 
an excitement in the art that lifts it from the labor of a 
calling. Hovering between two lives, the Real and 
Ideal, dwells the life of music and the stage. But that 
life was lost evermore to the idol of the eyes and ears 
of Naples. Lifted to the higher realm of passionate 
love, it seemed as if the fictitious genius which repre- 
sents the thoughts of others was merged in the genius 
that grows Al thought itself. It had been the worst 
infidelity to the Lost, to have descended again to live 
on the applause of others. And so — for she would 
not accept alms from Glyndon — so, by the commonest 
arts, the humblest industry which the sex knows, alone 
and unseen, she who had slept on the breast of Zanoni 
found a shelter for their child. As when, in the noble 
verse prefixed to this chapter, Armida herself has 
destroyed her enchanted palace, — not a vestige of that 
bower, raised of old by Poetry and Love, remained to 
say, “ It had been ! ” 

And the child avenged the father; it bloomed, it 
thrived, — it waxed strong in the light of life. But still 
it seemed haunted and preserved by some other being 
than her own. In its sleep there was that slumber, so 
deep and rigid, which a thunderbolt could not have 
disturbed; and in such sleep often it moved its arms, 
as to embrace the air: often its lips stirred with mur- 
mured sounds of indistinct affection, — not for her; 
and all the while upon its cheeks a hue of such celestial 
bloom, upon its lips a smile of such mysterious joy I 


ZANONI. 


439 


Then, when it waked, its eyes did not turn first to 
Aer, — wistful, earnest, wandering, they roved around, 
to fix on her pale face, at last, in mute sorrow and 
reproach. 

Never had Viola felt before how mighty was her love 
for Zanoni; how thought, feeling, heart, soul, life, — 
all lay crushed and dormant in the icy absence to which 
she had doomed herself! She heard not the roar with- 
out, she felt not one amidst those stormy millions, — 
worlds of excitement laboring through every hour. 
Only when Glyndon, haggard, wan, and spectre-like, 
glided in, day after day, to visit her, did the fair 
daughter of the careless South know how heavy and 
universal was the Death- Air that girt her round. Sub- 
lime in her passive unconsciousness, — her mechanic 
life, — she sat, and feared not, in the den of the Beasts 
of Prey. 

The door of the room opened abruptly, and Glyndon 
entered. His manner was more agitated than usual. 

“Is it you, Clarence? ” she said in her soft, languid 
tones. “ You are before the hour I expected you. ” 

“Who can count on his hours at Paris? ” returned 
Glyndon, with a frightful smile. “ Is it not enough 
that I am here! Your apathy in the midst of these 
sorrows appalls me. You say calmly, ‘Farewell;’ 
calmly you bid me, ‘ Welcome! ’ — as if in every corner 
there was not a spy, and as if with every day there was 
not a massacre ! ” 

“Pardon me! But in these walls lies my world. I 
can hardly credit all the tales you tell me. Every- 
thing here, save that, ” and she pointed to the infant, 
“seems already so lifeless, that in the tomb itself 
one could scarcely less heed the crimes that are done 
without. ” 


440 


ZANONI. 


Glyndon paused for a few moments, and gazed with 
strange and mingled feelings upon that face and form, 
still so young, and yet so invested with that saddest 
of all repose, — when the heart feels old. 

“O Viola,” said he, at last, and in a voice of sup- 
pressed passion, “ was it thus I ever,, thought to see 
you, — ever thought to feel for you, when we two first 
met in the gay haunts of Naples? Ah, why then did 
you refuse my love; or why was mine not worthy of you ? 
Nay, shrink not! — let me touch your hand. No pas- 
sion so sweet as that youthful love can return to me 
again. I feel for you but as a brother for some younger 
and lonely sister. With you, in your presence, sad 
though it be, I seem to breathe back the purer air of 
my early life. Here alone, except in scenes of turbulence 
and tempest, the Phantom ceases to pursue me. I for- 
get even the Death that stalks behind, and haunts me as 
my shadow. But better days may be in store for us 
yet. Viola, I at last begin dimly to perceive how to 
baffle and subdue the Phantom that has cursed my life, 
— it is to brave, and defy it. In sin and in riot, as I 
have told thee, it haunts me not. But I comprehend 
now what Mejnour said in his dark apothegms, ^ that I 
should dread the spectre most when unseen.^ In vir- 
tuous and calm resolution it appears, — ay, I behold it 
now; there, there, with its livid eyes! ” — and the drops 
fell from his brow. “ But it shall no longer daunt 
me from that resolution. I face it, and it gradually 
darkens back into the shade. ” He paused, and his eyes 
dwelt with a terrible exultation upon the sunlit space ; 
then, with a heavy and deep-drawn breath, he resumed, 
“ Viola, I have found the means of escape. W^e will 
leave this city. In some other land we will endeavor to 
comfort each other, and forget the past. ” 


ZANONI. 


441 


‘‘No,” said Viola, calmly; "I have no further wish 
to stir, till I am borne hence to the last resting-place.', 
I dreamed of him last night, Clarence ! — dreamed of 
him for the first time since we parted; and, do not 
mock me, methought that he forgave the deserter, and 
called me ‘ Wife.’ That dream hallows the room. 
Perhaps it will visit me again before I die.” 

“Talk not of him, — of the demi-fiend! ” cried 
Glyndon , fiercely, and stamping his foot. “ Thank 
the Heavens for any fate that hath rescued thee from 
him! ” 

“ Hush! ” said Viola, gravely. And as she was about 
to proceed, her eye fell upon the child. It was stand- 
ing in the very centre of that slanting column of light 
which the sun poured into the chamber; and the rays 
seemed to surround it as a halo, and settled, crown-like, 
on the gold of its shining hair. In its small shape, so 
exquisitely modelled, in its large, steady, tranquil 
eyes, there was something that awed, while it charmed 
the mother’s pride. It gazed on Glyndon as he spoke, 
with a look which almost might have seemed disdain, 
and which Viola, at least, interpreted as a defence of 
the Absent, stronger than her own lips could frame. 

Glyndon broke the pause. 

“ Thou wouldst stay, for what? To betray a mother’s 
duty! If any evil happen to thee here, what becomes 
of thine infant? Shall it be brought up an orphan, in a 
country that has desecrated thy religion, and where 
human charity exists no more? Ah, weep, and clasp it 
to thy bosom; but tears do not protect and save.” 

“ Thou hast conquered, my friend, I will fly with 
thee.” 

“ To-morrow night, then, be prepared. I will bring 
thee the necessary disguises. ” 


442 


ZANONI. 


And Glyndon then proceeded to sketch rapidly the 
outline of the path they were to take, and the story 
they were to tell. Viola listened, but scarcely com- 
prehended; he pressed her hand to his heart and 
departed. 


ZANONI. 


443 


CHAPTER V. 

Van seco pur anco 

Sdegno ed Amor, quasi due Veltri al fianco.i 

Ger. Lib.y cant. xx. cxvii. 

Glyndon did not perceive, as he hurried from the house, 
two forms crouching by the angle of the wall. He saw 
still the spectre gliding by his side; but he beheld not 
the yet more poisonous eyes of human envy and 
woman’s jealousy that glared on his retreating footsteps. 

Nicot advanced to the house; Fillide followed him 
in silence. The painter, an old sans-culotte y knew well 
what language to assume to the porter. He beckoned 
the latter from his lodge, “How is this, citizen? 
Thou harborest a * suspect. ’ ” 

“ Citizen, you terrify me! — if so, name him.” 

“ It is not a man; a refugee, an Italian woman, lodges 
here. ” 

“ Yes, au troisiemCy — the door to the left. But what 
of her? — she cannot be dangerous, poor child! ” 

“ Citizen, beware ! Dost thou dare to pity her ? ” 

“I? No, no, indeed. But — ” 

“ Speak the truth! Who visits her? ” 

“No one but an Englishman.” 

“That is it, — an Englishman, a spy of Pitt and 
Coburg. ” 

“ Just Heaven! is it possible? ” 

1 There went with him still Disdain and Love, like two grey- 
hounds side by side. 


444 


ZANONI. 


”How, citizen! dost thou speak of Heaven? Thou 
must be an aristocrat! ” 

“No, indeed; it was hut an old bad habit, and 
escaped me unawares.” 

“ How often does the Englishman visit her ? ” 

“Daily.” 

Eillide uttered an exclamation. 

“ She never stirs out,” said the porter. “ Her solo 
occupations are in work, and care of her infant.” 

“Her infant!” 

Eillide made a bound forward. Nicot in vain 
endeavored to arrest her. She sprang up the stairs;; 
she paused not till she was before the door indicated by 
the porter; it stood ajar, she entered, she stood at the 
threshold, and beheld that face, still so lovely! The 
sight of so much beauty left her hopeless. And the 
child, over whom the mother bent! — she who had 
never been a mother ! — she uttered no sound ; the 
furies were at work within her breast. Viola turned, 
and saw her, and, terrified by the strange apparition, 
with features that expressed the deadliest hate and scorn 
and vengeance, uttered a cry, and snatched the child to 
her bosom. The Italian laughed aloud, — turned, 
descended, and, gaining the spot where Nicot still 
conversed with the frightened porter, drew him from 
the house. When they were in the open street, she 
halted abruptly, and said, “ Avenge me, and name thy 
price! ” 

“ My price, sweet one! is but permission to love thee. 
Thou wilt fly with me to-morrow night; thou wilt 
possess thyself of the passports and the plan. ” 

“And they — ” 

“ Shall, before then, find their asylum in the Con- 
ciergerie. The guillotine shall requite thy wrongs.” 


ZANONI. 


445 


Do this, and I am satisfied,” said Fillide, firmly. 
And they spoke no more till they regained the house. 
But when she there, looking up to the dull building, 
saw the windows of the room which the belief of Glyn- 
don^s love had once made a paradise, the tiger relented 
at the heart; something of the woman gushed back upon 
her nature, dark and savage as it was. She pressed the 
arm on which she leaned convulsively, and exclaimed, 
“No, no! not him! denounce her, — let her perish; 
but I have slept on his bosom, — not him / ” 

" It shall be as thou wilt,” said Nicot, with a deviFs 
eneer; “ but he must be arrested for the moment. No 
harm shall happen to him, for no accuser shall appear. 
But her, — thou wilt not relent for her? ” 

Fillide turned upon him her eyes, and their dark 
glance was sufficient answer. 


446 


ZANONI. 


CHAPTEK VI. 

In poppa quella 

Che guidar gli dovea, fata] Donsella.^ 

Ger. Lib., cant. xv. 3. 

The Italian did not overrate that craft of simulation 
proverbial with her country and her sex. Not a word, 
not a look, that day revealed to Glyndon the deadly 
change that had converted devotion into hate. He him- 
self, indeed, absorbed in his own schemes, and in reflec- 
tions on his own strange destiny, was no nice observer. 
But her manner, milder and more subdued than usual, 
produced a softening effect upon his meditations towards 
the evening; and he then began to converse with her on 
the certain hope of escape, and on the future that would 
await them in less unhallowed lands. 

“ And thy fair friend,” said Eillide, with an averted 
eye and a false smile, “ who was to be our companion ? 
— thou hast resigned her, Nicot tells me, in favor of 
one in whom he is interested. Is it so 1 ” 

“ He told thee this ! ” returned Glyndon, evasively. 
‘‘Well! does the change content thee? ” 

“ Traitor! ” muttered Eillide; and she rose suddenly, 
approached him, parted the long hair from his forehead 
caressingly, and pressed her lips convulsively on his 
brow. 

“ This were too fair a head for the doomsman,” said 
she, with a slight laugh, and, turning away, appeared 
occupied in preparations for their departure. 

1 By the prow was the fatal lady ordained to be the guide. 


ZANONI. 


447 


The next morning, when he rose, Glyndon did not 
see the Italian ; she was absent from the house when he 
left it. It was necessary that he should once more 

visit C before his final departure, not only to 

arrange for Nicot’s participation in the flight, but lest 
any suspicion should have arisen to thwart or endanger 

the plan he had adopted. C , though not one of 

the immediate coterie of Robespierre, and indeed 
secretly hostile to him, had possessed the art of keeping 
well with each faction as it rose to power. Sprung from 
the dregs of the populace, he had, nevertheless, the 
grace and vivacity so often found impartially amongst 
every class in France. He had contrived to enrich 
himself — none knew how — in the course of his rapid 
career. He became, indeed, ultimately one of the 
wealthiest proprietors of Paris, and at that time kept 
a splendid and hospitable mansion. He was one of 
those whom, from various reasons, Robespierre deigned 
to favor; and he had <often saved the proscribed and 
suspected, by procuring them passports under disguised 

names, and advising their method of escape. But C 

was a man who took this trouble only for the rich. 

“ The incorruptible Maximilien,” who did not want the. 
tryanPs faculty of penetration, probably saw through 
all his manoeuvres, and the avarice which he cloaked 
beneath his charity. But it was noticeable that Robes- 
pierre frequently seemed to wink at — nay, partially to 
encourage — such vices in men whom he meant hereafter 
to destroy, as would tend to lower them in the public 
estimation, and to contrast with his own austere and 
unassailable integrity and purism. ^ And, doubtless, he 
often grimly smiled in his sleeve at the sumptuous 
mansion and the griping covetousness of the worthy 
Citizen C . 


448 


ZANONI. 


To this personage, then, Glyndon musingly bent his 
way. It was true, as he had darkly said to Viola, that 
in proportion as he had resisted the spectre, its terrors 
had lost their influence. The time had come at last, 
when, seeing crime and vice in all their hideousness, 
and in so vast a theatre, he had found that in vice and 
crime there are deadlier horrors than in the eyes of a 
phantom-fear. His native nobleness began to return 
to him. As he passed the streets, he revolved in his 
mind projects of future repentance and reformation. 
He even meditated, as a just return for Fillide’s devo- 
tion, the sacrifice of all the reasonings of his birth and 
education. He would repair whatever errors he had 
committed against her, by the self-immolation of mar- 
riage with one little congenial with himself. He who 
had once revolted from marriage with the noble and 
gentle Viola! — he had learned in that world of wrong to 
know that right is right, and that Heaven did not make 
the one sex to be the victim of the other. The young 
visions of the Beautiful and the Good rose once more 
before him; and along the dark ocean of his mind lay 
the smile of reawakening virtue, as a path of moonlight. 
.Never, perhaps, had the condition of his soul been so 
elevated and unselfish. 

In the meanwhile Jean Nicot, equally absorbed in 
dreams of the future, and already in his own mind 
laying out to the best advantage the gold of the friend 
he was about to betray, took his way to the house hon- 
ored by the residence of Eobespierre. He had no inten- 
tion to comply with the relenting prayer of Fillide, that 
the life of Glyndon should be spared. He thought 
with Barrere, “ U n'y a que les marts qui ne revient 
'pas^ In all men who have devoted themselves to any 
study, or any art, with sufficient pains to attain a cer- 


ZANONI. 


449 


tain degree of excellence, there must be a fund of energy 
immeasurably above that of the ordinary herd. Usually 
this energy is concentred on the objects of their profes- 
sional ambition, and leaves them, therefore, apathetic 
to the other pursuits of men. But where those objects 
are denied, where the stream has not its legitimate vent, 
the energy, irritated and aroused, possesses the whole 
being, and if not wasted on desultory schemes, or if 
not purified by conscience and principle, becomes a 
dangerous and destructive element in the social system, 
through which it wanders in riot and disorder. Hence, 
in all wise monarchies, — nay, in all well -constituted 
states, — the peculiar care with which channels are opened 
for every art and every science ; hence the honor paid to 
their cultivators by subtle and thoughtful statesmen, 
who, perhaps, for themselves, see nothing in a picture 
but colored canvas, — nothing in a problem but an 
ingenious puzzle. No state is ever more in danger than 
when the talent that should be consecrated to peace has 
no occupation but political intrigue or personal advance*: 
ment. Talent unhonored is talent at war with men. 
And here it is noticeable, that the class of actors having 
been the most degraded by the public opinion of the old 
regime^ their very dust deprived of Christian burial, 
no men (with certain exceptions in the company espe- 
cially favored by the Court) were more relentless and 
revengeful among the scourges of the Revolution. 
In the savage Collot d’Herbois, mauvais comedieriy 
were embodied the wrongs and the vengeance of a 
class. 

Now the energy of Jean Nicot had never been suffi- 
ciently directed to the art he professed. Even in his 
earliest youth, the political disquisitions of his master, 
David, had distracted him from the more tedious labors 
29 


450 


ZANONI. 


of the easel. The defects of his person had embittered 
his mind ; the atheism of his benefactor had deadened 
his conscience. For one great excellence of religion 
— above all, the Eeligion of the Cross — is, that it 
raises patience first into a virtue, and next into a 
hope. Take away the doctrine of another life, of 
requital hereafter, of the smile of a Father upon our 
sufferings and trials in our ordeal here, and what 
becomes of patience? But without patience, what is 
man? — and what a people? Without patience, art 
never can be high; without patience, liberty never can 
be perfected. By wild throes, and impetuous, aim- 
less struggles. Intellect seeks to soar from Penury, 
and a nation to struggle into Freedom. And woe, 
thus unfortified, guideless, and unenduring, — woe to 
both! 

Nicot was a villain as a boy. In most criminals, 
however abandoned, there are touches of humanity, — 
relics of virtue; and the true delineator of mankind 
often incurs the taunt of bad hearts and dull minds, 
for showing that even the worst alloy has some parti- 
cles of gold, and even the best that come stamped from 
the mint of Nature have some adulteration of the dross. 
But there are exceptions, though few, to the general 
rule, — exceptions, when the conscience lies utterly dead, 
and when good or bad are things indifferent but as 
means to some selfish end. So was it with the 'protege 
of the atheist. Envy and hate filled up his whole 
being, and the consciousness of superior talent only 
made him curse the more all who passed him in the 
sunlight with a fairer form or happier fortunes. But, 
monster though he was, when his murderous fingers 
griped the throat of his benefactor, Time, and that fer- 
ment of all evil passions — the Eeign of Blood — had 


ZANONI. 


451 


made in the deep hell of his heart a deeper still. 
Unable to exercise his calling (for even had he dared to 
make his name prominent, revolutions are no season for 
painters; and no man — no! not the richest and proud- 
est magnate of the land, has so great an interest in 
peace and order, has so high and essential a stake in the 
wellbeing of society, as the poet and the artist), his 
whole intellect, ever restless and unguided, was left to 
ponder over the images of guilt most congenial to it. 
He had no future but in this life, and how in this life 
had the men of power around him, the great wrestlers 
for dominion, thriven? All that was good, pure, 
unselfish, — whether among Koyalists or Eepublicans, — 
swept to the shambles, and the deathsmen left alone in 
the pomp and purple of their victims! Nobler paupers 
than Jean Nicot would despair; and Poverty would 
rise in its ghastly multitudes to cut the throat of 
Wealth, and then gash itself limb by limb, if Patience, 
the Angel of the Poor, sat not by its side, pointing with 
solemn finger to the life to come! And now, as Nicot 
neared the house of the Dictator, he began to meditate 
a reversal of his plans of the previous day: not that 
he faltered in his resolution to denounce Glyndon, and 
Viola would necessarily share his fate, as a companion 
and accomplice, — no, there he was resolved! for he 
hated both (to say nothing of his old but never-to-be- 
forgotten grudge against Zanoni). Viola had scorned 
him, Glyndon had served, and the thought of gratitude 
was as intolerable to him as the memory of insult. But 
why, now, should he fly from France? — he could pos- 
sess himself of Glyndon’s gold; he doubted not that he 
could so master Fillide by her wrath and jealousy that he 
could command her acquiescence in all. he proposed. 
The papers he had purloined — Desmoulins’ correspon* 


452 


ZANONI. 


dence with Glyndon — while it insured the fate of the 
latter, might be eminently serviceable to Robespierre, 
might induce the tyrant to forget his own old liaisons 
with Hebert, and enlist him among the allies and tools 
of the King of Terror. Hopes of advancement, of 
wealth , of a career, again rose before him. This corres- 
pondence, dated shortly before Camille Desmoulins’’ 
death, was written with that careless and daring impru- 
dence which characterized the spoiled child of Danton. 
It spoke openly of designs against Robespierre*, it. 
named confederates whom the tyrant desired only a 
popular pretext to crush. It was a new instrument of 
death in the hands of the Death-compeller. What 
greater gift could he bestow on Maximilien the- 
Incorruptible ? 

Nursing these thoughts, he arrived at last before the- 
door of Citizen Dupleix. Around the threshold were 
grouped, in admired confusion, some eight or ten sturdy 
Jacobins, the voluntary body-guard of Robespierre, — 
tall fellows, well armed, and insolent with the power 
that reflects power, mingled with women, young and 
fair, and gayly dressed^ who had come, upon the rumor 
that Maximilien had had an attack of bile, to inquire 
tenderly of his health; for Robespierre, strange though 
it seem, was the idol of the sex! 

Through this cortege stationed without the door, 
and reaching up the stairs to the landing-place, — for 
Robespierre’s apartments were not spacious enough to 
afford sufficient antechambei* for levees so numerous and 
miscellaneous, — Nicot forced his way, and far from 
friendly or flattering were the expressions that regaled 
his ears. 

“Aha, lejoli Polichinelle ! said a comely matron, 
whose robe his obtrusive and angular elbows cruelly 


ZANONI. 


453 


discomposed. “ But how could one expect gallantry 
from such a scarecrow! ” 

“ Citizen , I beg to avise thee ^ that thou art treading 
on my feet. I beg thy pardon, but now I look at 
thine, I see the hall is not wide enough for them.” 

"Ho! Citizen Nicot,” cried a Jacobin, shouldering 
his formidable bludgeon, " and what brings thee hither? 
— thinkest thou that Hebert’s crimes are forgotten 
already? Off, sport of Nature! and thank the Eire 
Supreme that he made thee insignificant enough to be 
forgiven. ” 

“ A pretty face to look out of the National Window,” ^ 
said the woman whose robe the painter had ruffled. 

" Citizens,” said Nicot, white with passion, but Con- 
straining himself so that his words seemed to come from 
grinded teeth, “ I have the honor to inform you that I 
seek the Representant upon business of the utmost 
importance to the public and himself; and,” he added 
slowly and malignantly, glaring round, “ I call all good 
citizens to be my witnesses when I shall complain to 
Bobespierre of the reception bestowed on me by some 
amongst you. ” 

There was in the man’s look and his tone of voice 
so much of deep and concentrated malignity, that the 
idlers drew back; and as the remembrance of the sud- 
den ups and downs of revolutionary life occurred to 

* The courteous use of the plural was proscribed at Paris. The 
Societes Populaires had decided that whoever used it should be 
prosecuted as suspect et adulateur ! At the door of the public 
administrations and popular societies was written up, “ Ici on 
s'honore du Citoyen, et on se tutoye ” ! ! ! “ Take away Murder 
from the French Revolution, and it becomes the greatest farce 
ever played before the angels ! 

* The Guillotine. 

a “ Here they respect the title of Citizen, and they thee and thou one another. ” 


454 


ZANONI. 


them, several voices were lifted to assure the squalid 
and ragged painter that nothing was farther from their 
thoughts than to offer affront 'to a citizen whose very 
appearance proved him to he an exemplary sans-culotte. 
Nicot received these apologies in sullen silence, and, 
folding his arms, leaned against the wall, waiting in 
grim patience for his admission. 

The loiterers talked to each other in separate knots 
of two and three; and through the general hum rang 
the clear, loud, careless whistle of the tall Jacobin who 
stood guard by the stairs. Next to Nicot, an old 
woman and a young virgin were muttering * in earnest 
whispers, and the atheist painter chuckled inly to over- 
hear their discourse. 

“I assure thee, my dear,” said the crone, with a 
mysterious shake of head, “ that the divine Catherine 
Theot, whom the impious now persecute, is really 
inspired. There can he no doubt that the elect, of 
whom Dom Gerle and the virtuous Robespierre are 
destined to he the two grand prophets, will enjoy eternal 
life here, and exterminate all their enemies. There is 
no doubt of it, — not the least ! ” 

“ How delightful ! ” said the girl ; “ ce cher Rohes- 
jpierre ! — he does not look very long-lived either ! ” 

“ The greater the miracle,” said the old woman. I 
am just eighty-one, and I don’t feel a day older since 
Catherine Theot promised me I should be one of the 
elect! ” 

Here the women were jostled aside by some new- 
comers, who talked loud and eagerly. 

“ Yes,” cried a brawny man, whose garb denoted him to 
be a butcher,, with bare arms, and a cap of liberty 
on his head ; “ I am come to warn Robespierre, They 
lay a snare for him; they offer him the Palais 


ZANONI. 


455 


National. On ne pent etre ami du jpeujple et hahiter un 
palais. ” ^ 

“No, indeed,” answered a cordonnier ; “I like him 
best in his little lodging with the menuisier : it looks 
like one of W5.” 

Another rush of the crowd, and a new group were 
thrown forward in the vicinity of Nicot. And these 
men gabbled and chattered faster and louder than the 
rest. 

“ But my plan is — ” 

Au diable with your plan! I tell you my scheme 
is — ” 

“ Nonsense ! ” cried a third. “ When Kobespierre 
understands my new method of making gunpowder, the 
enemies of France shall — ” 

“ Bah ! who fears foreign enemies % ” interrupted a 
fourth; “the enemies to be feared are at home. My 
new guillotine takes off fifty heads at a time ! ” 

" But my new Constitution ! ” exclaimed a fifth. 

** My new Eeligion, citizen! ” murmured, compla- 
cently, a sixth. 

“ Sacre mille tonnerreSf silence ! ” roared forth one 
of the Jacobin guard. 

And the crowd suddenly parted as a fierce-looking 
man, buttoned up to the chin, his sword rattling by 
his side, his spurs clinking at his heel, descended the 
stairs, — his cheeks swollen and purple with intemper- 
ance, his eyes dead and savage as a vulture’s. There 
was a still pause, as all, with pale cheeks, made way for 
the relentless Henriot.^ Scarce had this gruff and iron 

1 “ No one can be a friend of the people, and dwell in a palace.” 
—^Papiers in^dits trouv€s chez Robespierre, etc., vol. ii. p. 132. 

2 Or Hanriot. It is singular how undetermined are not only the 
characters of the French Revolution, but even the spelling of their 


456 


ZANONI. 


minion of the tyrant stalked through the throng, than a 
new movement of respect and agitation and fear swayed 
the increasing crowd, as there glided in, with the 
noiselessness of a shadow, a smiling, sober citizen, 
plainly but neatly clad, with a downcast humble eye. 
A milder, meeker face no pastoral poet could assign to 
Corydon or Thyrsis, — why did the crowd shrink and 
hold their breath ? As the ferret in a burrow crept that 
slight form amongst the larger and rougher creatures 
that huddled and pressed back on each other as he 
passed. A wink of his stealthy eye, and the huge Jaco- 
bins left the passage clear, without sound or question. 
On he went to the apartment of the tyrant, and thither 
will we follow him. 

names. With the historians it is Vergniauc?, — with the journal- 
ists of the time it is Vorgniaux. With one authority it is 
Eobespierre, — with another Eoberspierre. 


ZANONL 


457 


CHAPTER VII. 

ConstitTitum est, ut quisquis eum hominem dixisset fuisse, capitalem 
penderet poenam.i — St. Aug., Of the God Serapis, L 18, rfe Civ. 
Dei, c. 5. 

Robespierre was reclining languidly in his fauteuil , his 
cadaverous countenance more jaded and fatigued than 
usual. He to whom Catherine Theot assured immortal 
life, looked, indeed, like a man at death’s door. On 
the table before him was a dish heaped with oranges, 
with the juice of which it is said that he could alone 
assuage the acrid bile that overflowed his system ; and 
an old woman, richly dressed (she had been a Marquise 
in the old regime) was employed in peeling the Hes- 
perian fruits for the sick Dragon, with delicate fingers 
covered with jewels. I have before said that Robes- 
pierre was the idol of the women. Strange certainly! 
— but then they were French women ! The old Mar- 
quise, who, like Catherine Theot, called him "son,” 
really seemed to love him piously and disinterestedly as 
a mother; and as she peeled the oranges, and heaped 
on him the most caressing and soothing expressions, 
the livid ghost of a smile fiuttered about his meagre 
lips. At a distance, Payan and Couthon, seated at 
another table, were writing rapidly, and occasionally 
pausing from their work to consult with each other in 
brief whispers. 

1 It was decreed, that whoso should say that he had been a man, 
should suffer the punishment of a capital offence. 


458 


ZANONL 


Suddenly one of the Jacobins opened the door, and, 
approaching Robespierre, whispered to him the name of 
Guerin J At that word the sick man started up, as if 
new life were in the sound. 

“ My kind friend,” he said to the Marquise^ “ forgive 
me; I must dispense with thy tender cares. France 
demands me. I am never ill when I can serve my 
country! ” 

The old Marquise lifted up her eyes to heaven and 
murmured, “ Quel ange ! ” 

Robespierre waved his hand impatiently ; and the old 
woman, with a sigh, patted his pale cheek, kissed his 
forehead, and submissively withdrew. The next 
moment, the smiling, sober man we have before 
described, stood, bending low, before the tyrant. And 
well might Robespierre welcome one of the subtlest 
agents of his power, — one on whom he relied more than 
the clubs of his Jacobins, the tongues of his orators, 
the bayonets of his armies ; Guerin, the most renowned 
of his ecouteurSi — the searching, prying, universal, 
omnipresent spy, who glided like a sunbeam through 
chink and crevice, and brought to him intelligence not 
only of the deeds, but the hearts of men! 

“ Well, citizen, well! — and what of Tallien? ” 

“ This morning, early, two minutes after eight, he 
went out. ” 

" So early 1 — hem ! ” 

" He passed Rue des Quatre Fils, Rue du Temple, 
Rue de la Reunion, au Marais, Rue Martin; nothing 
observable, except that — ” 

“That what?” 

1 See for the espionage on which Guerin was employed, Lei 
Papiers Inidlts, etc., vol. i. p. 366, No. xxviii. 


ZANONI. 


459 


“ He amused himself at a stall in bargaining for some 
books. ” 

“Bargaining for books! Aha, the charlatan! — he 
would cloak the intriguant under the savant ! Well! 

“ At last, in the Kue des Fosses Montmartre, an indi- 
vidual in a blue surtout (unknown) accosted him. 
They walked together about the street some minuteSf 
and were joined by Legendre.” 

“Legendre! approach, Payan! Legendre, thou 
hearest! ” 

“ I went into a fruit-stall, and hired two little girls 
to go and play at ball within hearing. They heard 
Legendre say, ‘ I believe his power is wearing itself 
out.’ And Tallien answered, ‘ And himself too. I 
would not give three months’ purchase for his life.’ I 
do not know, citizen, if they meant thee ? ” 

“FTor I, citizen,” answered Eobespierre, with a fell 
smile, succeeded by an expression of gloomy thought. 
“ Ha! ” he muttered; “ I am young yet, — in the prime 
of life. I commit no excess. No; my constitution is 
sound, sound. Anything farther of Tallien ? ” 

“ Yes. The woman whom he loves — Teresa de 
Fontenai — who lies in prison, still continues to corre- 
spond with him; to urge him to save her by thy 
destruction : this my listeners overheard. His servant 
is the messenger between the prisoner and himself.” 

“ So ! The servant shall be seized in the open streets 
of Paris. The Eeign of Terror is not over yet. With 
the letters found on him, if such their context, I will 
pluck Tallien from his benches in the Convention. ” 
Eobespierre rose, and after walking a few moments 
to and fro the room in thought, opened the door and 
summoned one of the Jacobins without. To him he 
gave his orders for the watch and arrest of Tallien’s 


460 


ZANONI. 


servant, and then threw himself again into his chair. 
As the Jacobin departed, Guerin whispered, — 

“ Is not that the Citizen Aristides ? ” 

“Yes; a faithful fellow, if he would wash himself, 
and not swear so much. ” 

“ Didst thou not guillotine his brother ? ” 

“ But Aristides denounced him. ” 

“ Nevertheless, are such men safe about thy person? ” 
“ Humph! that is true.” And Bobespierre, drawing 
out his pocket-book, wrote a memorandum in it, replaced 
it in his vest, and resumed, — 

“ What else of Tallien ? ” 

“Nothing more. He and Legendre, with the 
unknown, walked to the Jardin Egalite^ and there 
parted. I saw Tallien to his house. But I have other 
news. Thou badest me watch for those who threaten 
thee in secret letters.” 

“ Guerin ! hast thou detected them ? Hast thou — hast 
thou — ” 

And the tyrant, as he spoke, opened and shut both 
his hands, as if already grasping the lives of the writers, 
and one of those convulsive grimaces that seemed like 
an epileptic affection, to which he was subject, dis- 
torted his features. 

“ Citizen, I think I have found one. Thou must 
know that amongst those most disaffected is the painter 
Nicot. ” 

“Stay, stay!” said Bobespierre, opening a manu- 
script book, bound in red morocco (for Bobespierre was 
neat and precise, even in his death-lists), and turning 
to an alphabetical index, — “ Nicot! — I have him, — 
atheist, sans-culotte (I hate slovens), friend of Hebert! 
Aha ! N. B. — Bene Dumas knows of his early career 
and crimes. Proceed! ” 


ZANONI. 


461 


" This Nicot has been suspected of diffusing tracts 
and pamphlets against thyself and the Comite. Yes- 
terday evening, when he was out, his porter admitted 
ine into his apartment. Rice Beau Repaire. With my 
master-key I opened his desk and escritoire. I found 
therein a drawing of thyself at the guillotine; and 
underneath was written, ‘ Bourfeau de ton pays, Us 
V arret de ton chdtiment ! ^ ^ I compared the words with 
the fragments of the various letters thou gavest me : the 
handwriting tallies with one. See, I tore off the 
writing.” 

Eobespierre looked, smiled, and, as if his vengeance 
were already satisfied, threw himself on his chair. “ It 
is well ! I feared it was a more powerful enemy. This 
man must be arrested at once. ” 

“ And he waits below. I brushed by him as I 
ascended the stairs.” 

“ Does he so? — admit! — nay, — hold! hold! Guerin, 
withdraw into the inner chamber till I summon thee 
again. Dear Payan, see that this Nicot conceals no 
weapons. ” 

Payan, who was as brave as Eobespierre was pusil- 
lanimous, repressed the smile of disdain that quivered 
on his lips a moment, and left the room. 

Meanwhile Eobespierre, with his head buried in his 
bosom, seemed plunged in deep thought. “Life is a 
melancholy thing, Couthon! ” said he, suddenly. 

“ Begging your pardon, I think death worse,” 
answered the philanthropist, gently. 

Eobespierre made no rejoinder, but took from his 
portefeuille that singular letter, which was found after- 
wards amongst his papers, and is marked LXI. in the 
published collection.^ 

1 Executioner of thy country, read the decree of thy punishment ! 

2 Paviers in€dits, etc.* vol. ii. D* 156. 


462 


ZANONI. 


“Without doubt,” it began, “ you are uneasy at not 
having earlier received news from me. Be not alarmed ; 
you know that I ought only to reply by our ordinary 
courier; and as he has been interrupted, dans sa der- 
niere course ^ that is the cause of my delay. When you 
receive this, employ all diligence to fly a theatre where 
you are about to appear and disappear for the last time. 
It were idle to recall to you all the reasons that expose 
you to peril. The last step that should place you sur 
le sopha de la presidence^ but brings you to the scaffold; 
and the mob will spit on your face as it has spat on 
those whom you have judged. Since, then, you have 
accumulated here a sufficient treasure for existence, I 
await you with great impatience, to laugh with you at 
the part you have played in the troubles of a nation 
as credulous as it is avid of novelties. Take your part 
according to our arrangements, — all is prepared. I 
conclude, — our courier waits. I expect your reply.” 

Musingly and slowly the Dictator devoured the 
contents of this epistle. “No,” he said to himself,— 
“no; he who has tasted power can no longer enjoy 
repose. Yet, Danton, Danton! thou wert right; better 
to be a poor fisherman than to govern men.” ^ 

The door opened, and Payan reappeared and whispered 
B-obespierre, “All is safe! See the man.” 

The Dictator, satisfied, summoned his attendant 
Jacobin to conduct Nicot to his presence. The painter 
entered with a fearless expression in his deformed fea- 
tures, and stood erect before Robespierre, who scanned 
him with a sidelong eye. 

It is remarkable that most of the principal actors of 

^ “ II vaudrait mieux,” said Danton, in his dungeon, “ etre un 
pauvrc pecheur que de gouoerner les hommes.^^ 


ZANONI. 


463 


the Revolution were singularly hideous in appearance, 
— from the colossal ugliness of Mirabeau and Danton, 
or the villanous ferocity in the countenances of David 
and Simon, to the filthy squalor of Marat, the sinister 
and bilious meanness of the Dictator’s features. But 
Robespierre, who was said to resemble a cat, had also a 
cat’s cleanness; and his prim and dainty dress, his 
shaven smoothness, the womanly whiteness of his lean 
hands, made yet more remarkable the disorderly ruffian- 
ism that characterized the attire and mien of the painter- 
sans-culotte. 

“And so, citizen,” said Robespierre, mildly, “"thou 
wouldst speak with me ? I know thy merits and civism 
have been overlooked too long. Thou wouldst ask some 
suitable provision in the state ? Scruple not — say 
on!” 

" Virtuous Robespierre, toi qui eclaires Vunivers,^ I 
come not to ask a favor, but to render service to the 
state. I have discovered a correspondence that lays 
open a conspiracy of which many of the actors are yet 
unsuspected. ” And he placed the papers on the table. 
Robespierre seized, and ran his eye over them rapidly 
and eagerly. 

“ Good ! — good ! ” he muttered to himself : “ this is 
all I wanted. Barrere, Legendre! I have them! 
Camille Desmoulins was but their dupe. I loved him 
once; I never loved them! Citizen Nicot, I thank 
thee. I observe these letters are addressed to an Eng- 
lishman. What Frenchman but must distrust these 
English wolves in sheep’s clothing! France wants no 
longer citizens of the world; that farce ended with 
Anarcharsis Clootz. I beg pardon. Citizen Kicot; but 
Clootz and Hebert were thy friends. ” 

1 Thou who enlightenest the world 


464 


ZANONI. 


“Nay,” said Nicot, apologetically, “we are all liable 
to be deceived. I ceased to honor them whom thou 
didst declare against; for I disown my own senses rather 
than thy justice.” 

“ Yes, I pretend to justice; that is the virtue I affect,” 
said E-obespierre, meekly; and with his feline propen- 
sities he enjoyed, even in that critical hour of vast 
schemes, of imminent danger, of meditated revenge, the 
pleasure of playing with a solitary victim.^ “And my 
justice shall no longer be blind to thy services, good 
Nicpt. Thou knowest this Glyndon ? ” 

“Yes, well, — intimately. He was my friend, but I 
would give up my brother if he were one of the ‘ indul- 
gents.^ I am not ashamed to say that I have received 
favors from this man. ” 

“ Aha ! — and thou dost honestly hold the doctrine that 
where a man threatens my life all personal favors are to 
be forgotten ? ” 

“ All ! ” 

“ Good citizen ! — kind Nicot ! — oblige me by writing 
the address of this Glyndon.” 

Nicot stooped to the table; and suddenly, when the 
pen was in his hand, a thought flashed across him, and 
he paused, embarrassed and confused. 

“ Write on, kind Nicot ! ” 

The painter slowly obeyed. 

“ Who are the other familiars of Glyndon 1 ” 

“ It was on that point I was about to speak to thee, 
Representant, ” said Nicot. “ He visits daily a woman, 
a foreigner, who knows all his secrets; she affects to be 

1 The most detestable anecdote of this peculiar hypocrisy in 
Kobespierre is that in which he is recorded to have tenderly 
pressed the hand of his old school-friend, Camille Desmoulins, the 
day that he signed the warrant for his arrest. 


ZANONI. 


465 


poor, and to support her child by industry. But she 
is the wife of an Italian of immense wealth, and there 
is no doubt that she has moneys which are spent in 
corrupting the citizens. She should be seized and 
arrested. ” 

“ Write down her name also.” 

“ But no time is to be lost ; for I know that both have 
a design to escape from Paris this very night.” 

“ Our government is prompt, good Nicot, — never fear. 
Humph ! — humph ! ” and Eohespierre took the paper 
on which Nicot had written, and stooping over it — for 
he was near-sighted — added, smilingly, “ Dost thou 
always write the same hand, citizen 1 This seems 
almost like a disguised character. ” 

“ I should not like them to know who denounced 
them, Reprhentant,” 

“ Good ! good ! Thy virtue shall be rewarded, trust 
me. Salut et fraternite ! 

Eohespierre half rose as he spoke, and Hicot withdrew. 

“ Ho, there ! — without ! ” cried the Dictator, ringing 
his hell; and as the ready Jacobin attended the sum- 
mons, “Pollow that man, Jean Nicot. The instant 
he has cleared the house seize him. At once to the 
Conciergerie with him. Stay ! — nothing against the 
law; there is thy warrant. The public accuser shall 
have my instruction. Away ! — quick ! 

The Jacobin vanished. All trace of illness, of infirm- 
ity, had gone from the valetudinarian ; he stood erect on 
the floor, his face twitching convulsively, and his arms 
folded. “ Ho ! Guerin ! ” the spy reappeared — “ take 
these addresses! Within an hour this Englishman and 
this woman must be in prison; their revelations will aid 
me against worthier foes. They shall die: they shall 
perish with the rest on the 10th, — the third day from 


466 


Z AN ONI. 


this. There ! ” and he wrote hastily, — “ there, also, is 
thy warrant ! Off ! 

“ And now, Couthon, Payan, we will dally no longer 
with Tallien and his crew. I have information that the 
Convention will not attend the Pete on the 10th. We 
must trust only to the sword of the law. I must compose 
my thoughts, — prepare my harangue. To-morrow, I 
will reappear at the Convention; to-morrow, bold St. 
Just joins us, fresh from our victorious armies; to-mor- 
row, from the tribune, I will dart the thunderbolt on the 
masked ' enemies of Prance; to-morrow, I will demand, 
in the face of the country, the heads of the conspirators.*' 


ZANONI. 


m 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Le glaive est contre toi tourne de toutes parties.^ 

La Harpe, Jeanne de Naples, Act iv. sc. 4. 


In the mean time Glyndon, after an audience of some 

length with C , in which the final preparations were 

arranged, sanguine of safety, and foreseeing no obstacle 
to escape, bent his way hack to Fillide. Suddenly, in 
the midst of his cheerful thoughts, he fancied he heard 
a voice too well and too terribly recognized, hissing in 
his ear, “ What ! thou wouldst defy and escape me ■ 
thou wouldst go hack to virtue and content. It is in 
vain, — it is too late. No, I will not haunt thee; 
human footsteps, no less inexorable, dog thee now. Me 
thou shalt not see again till in the dungeon, at midnight, 
before thy doom ! Behold — ” 

And Glyndon, mechanically turning his head, saw, 
close behind him, the stealthy figure of a man whom he 
had observed before, but with little heed, pass and repass 

him, as he quitted the house of Citizen C . Instantly 

and instinctively he knew that he was watched, — that 
he was pursued. The street he was in was obscure and 
deserted, for the day was oppressively sultry, and it was 
the hour when few were abroad, either on business or 
pleasure. Bold as he was, an icy chill shot through his 
heart. He knew too well the tremendous system that 
then reigned in Paris not to be aware of his danger. As 
the sight of the first plague-boil to the victim of the 

1 The sword is raised against you on all sides. 


468 


ZANONI. 


pestilence, was the first sight of the shadowy spy to that 
of the Kevolution : the watch, the arrest, the trial, the 
guillotine, — these made the regular and rapid steps of the 
monster that the anarchists called Law ! He breathed 
hard, he heard distinctly the loud beating of his heart. 
And so he paused, still and motionless, gazing upon the 
shadow that halted also behind him. 

Presently, the absence of all allies to the spy, the 
solitude of the streets, reanimated his courage ; he made 
a step towards his pursuer, who retreated as he advanced. 
“Citizen, thou followest me,” he said. “Thy busi- 
ness V’ 

“ Surely,” answered the man, with a deprecating 
smile , “ the streets are broad enough for both ? Thou 
art not so bad a republican as to arrogate all Paris to 
thyself! ” 

“ Go on first, then. I make way for thee.” 

The man bowed, doffed his hat politely, and passed 
forward. The next moment Glyndon plunged into a 
winding lane, and fled fast through a labyrinth of streets, 
passages, and alleys. By degrees he composed himself, 
and, -looking behind, imagined that he had baffled the 
pursuer; he then, by a circuitous route, bent his way 
once more to his home. As he emerged into one of the 
broader streets, a passenger, wrapped in a mantle, brush' 
ing so quickly by him that he did not observe his 
countenance, whispered, “Clarence Glyndon, you are 
dogged, — follow me! ” and the stranger walked quickly 
before him. Clarence turned, and sickened once more 
to see at his heels, with the same servile smile on his 
face, the pursuer he fancied he had escaped. He forgot 
the injunction of the stranger to follow him, and per- 
ceiving a crowd gathered close at hand, round a carica- 
ture-shop, dived amidst them, and, gaining another 


ZANONI. 


469 


street, altered the direction he had before taken, and, 
after a long and breathless course, gained without once 
more seeing the spy, a distant quartier of the city. 
Here, indeed, all seemed so serene and fair that his 
artist eye, even in that imminent hour, rested with 
pleasure on the scene. It was a comparatively broad 
space, formed by one of the noble quays. The Seine 
flowed majestically along, with boats and craft resting 
on its surface. The sun gilt a thousand spires and 
domes, and gleamed on the white palaces of a fallen 
chivalry. Here, fatigued and panting, he paused an 
instant, and a cooler air from the river fanned his brow, 
“Awhile, at least, I am safe here,” he murmured; and 
as he spoke, some thirty paces behind him, he beheld 
the spy. He stood rooted to the spot; wearied and 
spent as he was, escape seemed no longer possible, — the 
river on one side (no bridge at hand) , and the long row 
of mansions closing up the other. As he halted, he 
heard laughter and obscene songs from a house a little 
in his rear, between himself and the spy. It was a cafe 
fearfully known in that quarter. Hither often resorted 
the black troop of Henriot, — the minions and hidssiers 
of Hobespierre. The spy, then, had hunted the victim 
within the jaws of the hounds. The man slowly 
advanced, and, pausing before the open window of the 
cafe j put his head through the aperture, as to address 
and summon forth its armed inmates. 

At that very instant, and while the spy’s head was 
thus turned from him, standing in the half-open gateway 
of the house immediately before him, he perceived the 
stranger who had warned; the figure, scarcely distin- 
guishable through the mantle that wrapped it, motioned 
to him to enter. He sprang noiselessly through the 
friendly opening : the door closed ; breathlessly he fol- 


470 


ZANONI. 


lowed the stranger up a flight of broad stairs and through 
a suite of empty rooms, until, having gained a small 
cabinet, his conductor doffed the large hat and the long 
mantle that had hitherto concealed his shape and fea- 
tures, and Glyndon beheld Zanoni! 


ZANONI. 


471 


CHAPTER IX. 

Think not my magic wonders wrought by aid 
Of Stygian angels summoned up from hell ; 

Scorned and accursed be those who have essayed 
Her gloomy Dives and Afrites to compel. 

But by perception of the secret powers 
Of mineral springs in Nature’s inmost cell, 

Of herbs in curtain of her greenest bowers, 

And of the moving stars o’er mountain tops and towers. 

Wiffen’s Translation of Tasso, cant. xiv. xliii. 


“ You are safe here, young Englishman! ” said Zanoni, 
motioning Glyndon to a seat. “ Fortunate for you that 
I come on your track at last! ” 

" Far happier had it been if we had never met! Yet 
oven in these last hours of my fate, I rejoice to look 
once more on the face of that ominous and mysterious 
being to whom I can ascribe all the sufferings I have 
known. Here, then, thou shalt not palter with or elude 
me. Here, before we part, thou shalt unravel to me 
the dark enigma, if not of thy life, of my own! ” 

" Hast thou suffered? Poor neophyte! ” said Zanoni, 
pityingly. “Yes; I see it on thy brow. But where- 
fore wouldst thou blame me? Did I not warn thee 
against the whispers of thy spirit; did I not warn 
thee to forbear ? Did I not tell thee that the ordeal was 
one of awful hazard and tremendous fears, — nay, did I 
not offer to resign to thee the heart that was mighty 
enough, while mine, Glyndon, to content me? Was 
it not thine own daring and resolute choice to brave the 


472 


ZANONI. 


initiation! Of thine own free will didst thou make 
Mejnour thy master, and his. lore thy study! ” 

“ But whence came the irresistible desires of that wild 
and unholy knowledge? I knew them not till thine 
evil eye fell upon me, and I was drawn into the magic 
atmosphere of thy being! ” 

“Thou errest! — the desires were in thee; and, 
whether in one direction or the other, would have forced 
their way! Man! thou askest me the enigma of thy 
fate and my own! Look round all being, is there not 
mystery everywhere ? Can thine eye trace the ripening 
of the grain beneath the earth ? In the moral and the 
physical world alike, lie dark portents, far more wondrous 
than the powers thou wouldst ascribe to me ! ” 

“ Dost thou disown those powers ; dost thou confess 
thyself an impostor ? — or wilt thou dare to tell me that 
thou art indeed sold to the Evil One, — a magician 
whose familiar has haunted me night and day ? ” 

“It matters not what I am,” returned Zanoni; “it 
matters only whether I can aid thee to exorcise thy 
dismal phantom, and return once more to the wholesome 
air of this common life. Something, however, will I 
tell thee, not to vindicate myself, but the Heaven and 
the ISTature that thy doubts malign.” 

Zanoni paused a moment, and resumed with a slight 
smile, — 

“ In thy younger days thou hast doubtless read with 
delight the great Christian poet, whose muse, like the 
morning it celebrated, came to earth, ‘ crowned with 
flowers culled in Paradise.’ ^ Ko spirit was more 
imbued with the knightly superstitions of the time; 

1 “ L’aurea testa 
Di rose colte in Paradise infiora.” 

Tasso, Ger. Lib. iv. 1. 


ZANONI. 


473 


and surely the Poet of Jerusalem hath sufficiently, to 
satisfy even the Inquisitor he consulted, execrated all 
the practitioners of the unlawful spells invoked , — 

‘ Per isforzar Cocito o Flegetonte.’ ^ 

But in his sorrows and his wrongs, in the prison of 
his madhouse, know you not that Tasso himself found 
his solace, his escape, in the recognition of a holy and 
spiritual Theurgia, — of a magic that could summon the 
Angel, or the Good Genius, not the Fiend? And do 
you not remember how he, deeply versed as he was for 
his age, in the mysteries of the nobler Platonism, which 
hints at the secrets of all the starry brotherhoods, from 
the Chaldean to the later Rosicrucian, discriminates in 
his lovely verse, between the black art of Ismeno and 
the glorious lore of the Enchanter who counsels and 
guides upon their errand the champions of the Holy 
Land ? Hisy not the charms wrought by the aid of the 
Stygian Rebels,^ but the perception of the secret powers 
of the fountain and the herb, — the Arcana of the 
unknown nature and the various motions of the stars. 
His, the holy haunts of Lebanon and Carmel, — beneath 
his feet he saw the clouds, the snows, the hues of Iris, 
the generations of the rains and dews. Did the Chris- 
tian Hermit who converted that Enchanter (no fabulous 
being, but the type of all spirit that would aspire 
through Nature up to God) command him to lay aside 
these sublime studies, ‘ Le solite arte e V uso mio ’? 
No! but to cherish and direct them to worthy ends. 

1 To constrain Cocytus or Phlegethon. 

2 See this remarkable passage, which does indeed not unfaithfully 
represent the doctrine of the Pythagorean and the Platonist, in 
Tasso, cant. xiv. stanzas xli. to xlvii. ( Ger. Lib . ) They are beau* 
tifully translated by Wiffen. 


474 


ZANONI. 


And in this grand conception of the poet lies the secret 
of the true Theurgia, which startles your ignorance in a 
more learned day with puerile apprehensions, and the 
nightmares of a sick man’s dreams.” 

Again Zanoni paused, and again resumed: — 

“ In ages far remote, — of a civilization far different 
from that which now merges the individual in the state, 
— there existed men of ardent minds, and an intense 
desire of knowledge. In the mighty and solemn king- 
doms in which they dwelt, there were no turbulent and 
earthly channels to work off the fever of their minds. 
Set in the antique mould of castes through which no 
intellect could pierce, no valor could force its way, the 
thirst for wisdom alone reigned in the hearts of those 
who received its study as a heritage from sire to son. 
Hence, even in your imperfect records of the progress of 
human knowledge, you find that, in the earliest ages, 
Philosophy descended not to the business and homes of 
men. It dwelt amidst the wonders of the loftier crea^- 
tion ; it sought to analyze the formation of matter, — the 
essentials of the prevailing soul ; to read the mysteries 
of the starry orbs; to dive into those depths of Nature 
in which Zoroaster is said by the schoolmen first to have 
discovered the arts which your ignorance classes under 
the name of magic. In such an age, then, arose some 
men, who, amidst the vanities and delusions of their 
class, imagined that they detected gleams of a brighter 
and steadier lore. They fancied an affinity existing 
among all the works of Nature, and that in the lowliest 
lay the secret attraction that might conduct them 
upward to the loftiest.^ Centuries passed, and lives 

1 Agreeably, it would seem, to the notion of lamblichus and 
Plotinus, that the universe is as an animal ; so that there is sym- 
pathy and communication between one part and the other ; in the 


ZANONL 


475 


^ere wasted in these discoveries ; but step after step was 
chronicled and marked , and became the guide to the fe\^' 
who alone had the hereditary privilege to track their 
path. At last from this dimness upon some eyes the 
light broke; but think not, young visionary, that to 
those who nursed unholy thoughts, over whom the 
Origin of Evil held a sway, that dawning was vouch- 
safed. It could be given then, as now, only to the 
purest ecstasies of imagination and intoilect, undistracted 
by the cares of a vulgar life, or the appetites of the 
common clay. Ear from descending to the assistance of 
a fiend, theirs was but the august ambition to approach 
nearer to the Fount of Good; the more they emancipated 
themselves from this limbo of the planets, the more 
they were penetrated by the splendor and beneficence of 
God. And if they sought, and at last discovered, how 
to the eye of the Spirit all the subtler modifications of 
being and of matter might bo made apparent; if they 
discovered how, for the wings of the Spirit, all space 
might be annihilated, and while the body stood heavy 
and solid here, as a deserted tomb, the freed Idea might 
wander from star to star, — if such discoveries became 
in truth their own, the sublimest luxury of their knowl- 
edge was but this, to wonder, to venerate, and adore! 
For, as one not unlearned in these high matters has 
expressed it, ‘ There is a principle of the soul superior 
to all external nature, and through this principle we 
are capable of surpassing the order and systems of the 

smallest part may be the subtlest nerve. And hence the universal 
magnetism of Nature. But man contemplates the universe as an 
animalcule would an elephant. The animalcule, seeing scarcely 
the tip of the hoof, would be incapable of comprehending that the 
trunk belonged to the same creature, — that the effect produced 
upon one extremity would be felt in an instant by the other. 


476 


ZANONI. 


world, and participating the immortal life and the 
energy of the Sublime Celestials. When the soul is 
elevated to natures above itself, it deserts the order to 
which it is awhile compelled, and by a religious magne- 
tism is attracted to another and a loftier, with which it 
blends and mingles.’^ Grant, then, that such beings 
found at last the secret to arrest death; to fascinate 
danger and the foe ; to walk the revolutions of the earth 
unharmed, — think you that this life could teach them 
other desire than to yearn the more for the Immortal, 
and to fit their intellect the better for the higher being 
to which they might, when Time and Death exist no 
longer, be transferred ? Away with your gloomy 
fantasies of sorcerer and demon ! — • the soul can aspire 
only to the light; and even the error of our lofty knowD 
edge was but the forgetfulness of the weakness, the pas- 
sions, and the bonds which the death we so vainly 
conquered only can purge away ! ” 

This address was so different from what Glyndon had 
anticipated, that he remained for some moments speech- 
less, and at length faltered out, — 

“ But why, then, to me — ” 

“Why,” added Zanoni, — “why to thee have been 
only the penance and the terror, — the Threshold and 
the Phantom? Vain man! look to the commonest 
elements of the common learning. Can every tyro at 
his mere wish and will become the master; can the 
student, when he has bought his Euclid, become a 
Newton; can the youth whom the Muses haunt, say, 
‘ I will equal Homer; ’ yea, can yon pale tyrant, with 
all the parchment laws of a hundred system-shapers, and 
the pikes of his dauntless multitude, carve, at his will, 
a constitution not more vicious than the one which the 
1 Trom lamblich, “ On the Mysteries,” c. 7, sect. 7- 


ZANONI. 


477 


madness of a mob could overthrow? When, in that far 
time to which I have referred, the student aspired to 
the heights to which thou wouldst have sprung at a 
single hound, he was trained from his very cradle to the 
career he was to run. The internal and the outward 
nature were made clear to his eyes, year after year, as 
they opened on the day. He was not admitted to the 
practical initiation till not one earthly wish chained 
that suhlimest faculty which you call the Imagination, 
one carnal desire clouded the penetrative essence that 
you call the Intellect. And even then, and at the 
best, how few attained to the last mystery! Happier 
inasmuch as they attained the earlier to the holy glories 
for which Death is the heavenliest gate.” 

Zanoni paused, and a shade of thought and sorrow 
darkened his celestial beauty. 

" And are there, indeed, others, besides thee and 
Mejnour, who lay claim to thine attributes, and have 
attained to thy secrets ? ” 

‘ Others there have been before us, but we two now 
are alone on earth. ” 

“Impostor, thou betrayest thyself! If they could 
conquer Death, why live they not yet? ” ^ 

“Child of a day!” answered Zanoni, mournfully, 
“ have I not told thee the error of our knowledge was 
the forgetfulness of the desires and passions which the 
spirit never can wholly and permanently conquer while 
this matter cloaks it ? Canst thou think that it is no 
sorrow, either to reject all human ties, all friendship, 
and all love, or to see, day after day, friendship and 
love wither from our life, as blossoms from the stem? 
Canst thou wonder how, with the power to live while 

1 Glyndon appears to forget that Mejnour had before answered 
the very question which his doubts here a second time suggest. 


478 


ZANONI. 


the world shall last, ere even our ordinary date be fin' 
ished we yet may prefer to die? Wonder rather that 
there are two who have clung so faithfully to earth ! 
Me, I confess, that earth can enamour yet. Attaining 
to the last secret while youth was in its bloom, youth 
still colors all around me with its own luxuriant 
beauty; to me, yet, to breathe is to enjoy. The fresh- 
ness has not faded from the face of Nature, and not 
an herb in which I cannot discover a new charm, — 
an undetected wonder. As with my youth, so with 
Mejnour’s age : he will tell you that life to him is but 
a power to examine ; and not till he has exhausted all the 
marvels which the Creator has sown on earth, would he 
desire new habitations for the renewed Spirit to explore. 
We are the types of the two essences of what is imperish- 
able, — ‘ Akt, that enjoys; and Science, that contem- 
plates! ’ And now, that thou mayest be contented that 
the secrets are not vouchsafed to thee, learn that so 
utterly must the idea detach itself from what makes up 
the occupation and excitement of men; so must it be 
void of whatever would covet, or love, or hate, — that for 
the ambitious man, for the lover, the hater, the power 
avails not. And I, at last, bound and blinded by the 
most common of household ties ; I, darkened and help- 
less, adjure thee, the baffled and discontented, — I 
adjure thee to direct, to guide me; where are they? 
Oh, tell me, — speak! My wife, — my child? Silent! 
— oh, thou knowest now that I am no sorcerer, no 
enemy. I cannot give thee what thy faculties deny, — 
I cannot achieve what the passionless Mejnour failed 
to accomplish ; but I can give thee the next-best boon, 
perhaps the fairest, — I can reconcile thee to the daily 
world, and place peace between thy conscience and 
thyself.” 


ZANONI. 


479 


“Wilt thou promise ? ” 

“ By their sweet lives, I promise ! ” 

Glyndon looked and believed. He whispered the 
address to the house whither his fatal step already had 
brought woe and doom. 

“ Bless thee for this, ” exclaimed Zanoni, passionately, 
“ and thou shalt be blessed ! What ! couldst thou not 
perceive that at the entrance to all the grander worlds 
dwell the race that intimidate and awe ? Who in thy 
daily world ever left the old regions of Custom and 
Prescription, and felt not the first seizure of the shapeless 
and nameless Fear? Everywhere around thee where 
men aspire and labor, though they see it not, — in the 
closet of the sage, in the council of the demagogue, in 
the camp of the warrior, — everywhere cowers and 
darkens the Unutterable Horror. But there, where thou 
hast ventured, alone is the Phantom visible ; and never 
will it cease to haunt, till thou canst pass to the Infinite, 
as the seraph; or return to the Familiar, as a child! 
But answer me this: when, seeking to adhere to some 
calm resolve of virtue, the Phantom hath stalked 
suddenly to thy side ; when its voice hath whispered thee 
despair; when its ghastly eyes would scare thee back to 
those scenes of earthly craft or riotous excitement from 
which, as it leaves thee to worse foes to the soul, its 
presence is ever absent, — hast thou never bravely resisted 
the spectre and thine own horror; hast thou never 
said, ‘ Come what may, to Virtue I will cling ? ’ ” 

“ Alas ! ” answered Glyndon, “ only of late have I 
dared to do so. ” 

“ And thou hast felt then that the Phantom grew more 
dim and its power more faint ? ” 

“ It is true. ” 

“ Rejoice, then ! — thou hast overcome the true terror 


480 


ZANONI. 


and mystery of the ordeal. Kesolve is the first success. 
Eejoice, for the exorcism is sure! Thou art not of those 
who, denying a life to come, are the victims of the 
Inexorable Horror. Oh, when shall men learn, at last, 
that if the Great Eeligion inculcates so rigidly the 
necessity of faith, it is not alone that faith leads to 
the world to be; hut that without faith there is no 
excellence in this, — faith in something wiser, happier, 
diviner, than we see on earth! — the artist calls it the 
Ideal, — the priest. Faith. The Ideal and Faith are 
one and the same. Eeturn, O wanderer, return! Feel 
what beauty and holiness dwell in the Customary and 
the Old. Back to thy gateway glide, thou Horror! and 
calm, on the childlike heart, smile again, O azure Heaven, 
with thy night and thy morning star but as one, though 
under its double name of Memory and Hope ! ” 

As he thus spoke, Zanoni laid his hand gently on the 
burning temples of his excited and wondering listener; 
and presently a sort of trance came over him : he imagined 
that he was returned to the home of his infancy ; that he 
was in the small chamber where, over his early slumbers, 
his mother had watched and prayed. There it was, — 
visible, palpable, solitary, unaltered. In the recess, the 
homely bed; on the walls, the shelves filled with holy 
books ; the very easel on which he had first sought to call 
the ideal to the canvas, dust-covered, broken, in the- 
corner. Below the window lay the old churchyard : he 
saw it green in the distance, the sun glancing through 
the yew-trees ; he saw the tomb where father and mother 
lay united, and the spire pointing up to heaven, the 
symbol of the hopes of those who consigned the ashes to 
the dust; in his ear rang the bells, pealing, as on a 
Sabbath day. Far fled all the visions of anxiety and awe 
that had haunted and convulsed ; youth, boyhood, child- 


ZANONI. 


481 


hood came back to him with innocent desires and hopes ; 
he thought he fell upon his knees to pray. He woke, — 
he woke in delicious tears ; he felt that the Phantom was 
fled forever. He looked round, — Zanoni was gone. 
On the table lay these lines, the ink yet wet : — 

“ I will find ways and means for thy escape. At nightfall, 
as the clock strikes nine, a boat shall wait thee on the river 
before this house ; the boatman will guide thee to a retreat 
where thou mayst rest in safety till the Reign of Terror, 
which nears its close, be past. Think no more of the sensual 
love that lured, and wellnigh lost thee. It betrayed, and 
would have destroyed. Thou wilt regain thy land in safety, 
— long years yet spared to thee to muse over the past, and to 
redeem it. For thy future, be thy dream thy guide, and thy 
tears thy baptism.” 

The Englishman obeyed the injunctions of the letter, 
and found their truth. 


-I 


482 


ZANONI. 


CHAPTER X. 

Quid mirare meas tot in uno corpore formas ^ — Propert. 

ZANONI TO MEJNOUR. 

r • • • • • • • • •t* • 

She is in one of their prisons, — their inexorable prisons. 
It is Robespierre’s order, — I have tracked the cause to 
,Glyndon. This, then, made that terrible connection between 
vtheir fates which I could not unravel, but which (tilt severed 
as it now is) wrapped Glyndon himself in the same cloud that 
concealed her. In prison, — in prison ! — it is the gate of the 
grave! Her trial, and the inevitable execution that follows 
such trial, is the third day from this. The tyrant has fixed 
all his schemes of slaughter for the 10th of Thermidor. While 
the deaths of the unoffending strike awe to the city, his 
satellites are to massacre his foes. There is but one hope left, 
— that the Power which now dooms the doomer, may render 
me an instrument to expedite his fall. But two days left, — 
two days I In all my wealth of time I see but two days ; 
all beyond, — darkness, solitude. I may save her yet. The 
tyrant shall fall the day before that which he has set apart for 
slaughter! For the first time I mix among the broils and 
stratagems of men, and my mind leaps up from my despair, 
armed and eager for the contest.” 


A crowd had gathered round the Rue St. Honore ; a 
young man was just arrested by the order of Robespierre. 
He was known to be in the service of Tallien, that 
hostile leader in the Convention, whom the tyrant had 

* Why wonder that I have so many forms in a single body 1 


ZANONI. 


483 


hitherto trembled to attack. This incident bad there- 
fore produced a greater excitement than a circumstance 
so customary as an arrest in the Keign of Terror might 
be supposed to create. Amongst the crowd were many 
friends of Tallien, many foes to the tyrant, many weary 
of beholding the tiger dragging victim after victim to 
its den. Hoarse, foreboding murmurs were heard; 
fierce eyes glared upon the officers as they seized their 
prisoner; and though they did not yet dare openly to 
resist, those in the rear pressed on those behind, and 
encumbered the path of the captive and his captors. 
The young man struggled hard for escape, and, by a 
violent effort, at last wrenched himself from the grasp. 
The crowd made way, and closed round to protect him, 
as he dived and darted through their ranks; but sud- 
denly the trampling of horses was heard at hand, — the 
savage Henriot and his troop were bearing down upon 
the mob. The crowd gave way in alarm, and the pris- 
oner was again seized by one of the partisans of the Dic- 
tator. At that moment a voice whispered the prisoner, 
“Thou hast a letter which, if found on thee, ruins thy 
last hope. Give it to me ! I will bear it to Tallien. ” 
The prisoner turned in amaze, read something that 
encouraged him in the eyes of the stranger who thus 
accosted him. The troop were now on the spot; the 
Jacobin who had seized the prisoner released hold of 
him for a moment to escape the hoofs of the hojses : in 
that moment the opportunity was found, — the stranger 
had disappeared. 

At the house of Tallien the principal foes of the t}Tant 
were assembled. Common danger made common fellow- 
ship. All factions laid aside their feuds for the hour to 
unite against the formidable man who was marching 


484 


ZANONI. 


over all factions to his gory throne. There was 
bold Lecointre, the declared enemy; there, creeping 
Barrere, who would reconcile all extremes, the hero of the 
cowards; Barras, calm and collected; Collet d’Herhois, 
breathing wrath and vengeance, and seeing not that the 
crimes of Bobespierre alone sheltered his own. 

The council was agitated and irresolute. The awe 
which the uniform success and the prodigious energy of 
Bobespierre excited still held the greater part under 
its control. Tallien, whom the tyrant most feared, 
and who alone could give head and substance and direc- 
tion to so many contradictory passions, was too sullied 
by the memory of his own cruelties not to feel embar- 
rassed by his position as the champion of mercy. “ It 
is true,” he said, after an animating harangue from 
Lecointre, “ that the Usurper menaces us all. But he is 
still so beloved by his mobs, — still so supported by his 
Jacobins: better delay open hostilities till the hour is 
more ripe. To attempt and not succeed is to give us, 
bound hand and foot, to the guillotine. Every day his 
power must decline. Procrastination is our best ally — ” 
While yet speaking, and while yet producing the effect 
of water on the fire , it was announced that a stranger 
demanded to see him instantly on business that brooked 
no delay. 

“lam not at leisure,” said the orator, impatiently. 
The servant placed a note on the table. Tallien opened 
it, and found these words in pencil, “ Prom the prison 
of Teresa de Pontenai.” He turned pale, started up, 
and hastened to the anteroom, where he beheld a face 
entirely strange to him. 

“ Hope of Prance! ” said the visitor to him, and the 
very sound of his voice went straight to the heart, — 
“ your servant is arrested in the streets. I have saved 


ZANONI. 485 

your life, and that of your wife who will he. I bring 
to you this letter from Teresa de Fontenai.” 

Tallien, with a trembling hand, opened the letter, 
and read, — 

‘‘ Am I forever to implore you in vain ? Again and again I 
say, ‘ Lose not an hour if you value my life and your own.’ 
My trial and death are fixed the third day from this, — the 
10th Thermidor. Strike while it is yet time, — strike the 
monster ! — you have two days yet. If you fail, — if you 
procrastinate, — see me for the last time as I pass your win- 
dows to the guillotine ! ” 

" Her trial will give proof against you,” said the 
stranger. “ Her death is the herald of your own. Fear 
not the populace, — the populace would have rescued 
your servant. Fear not Eohespierre, — he gives himself 
to your hands. To-morrow he comes to the Conven- 
tion, — to-morrow you must cast the last throw for his 
head or your own. ” 

“ To-morrow he comes to the Convention ! And 
who are you that know so well what is concealed from 
me? ” 

" A man like you, who would save the woman he 
loves. ” 

Before Tallien could recover his surprise, the visitor 
was gone. 

Back went the Avenger to his conclave an altered 
man. “I have heard tidings, — no matter what,” he 
cried, — " that have changed my purpose. On the 10th 
we are destined to the guillotine. I revoke my counsel 
for delay. Bobespierre comes to the Convention to- 
morrow; we must confront and crush him. From 

the Mountain shall frown against him the grim shade 
of Danton, — from the Plain shall rise, in their bloody 


486 


Z AN ONI. 


cerements, the spectres of Vergniaud and Condorcet. 
Frapp ons / ” 

“ Frappons f ” cried even Barrere, startled into energy 
by the new daring of his colleague, — frappons ! it n^y 
a que les morts qui ne reviennent pas. ” 

It was observable (and the fact may be found in one 
of the memoirs of the time) that, during that day and 
night (the 7th Thermidor), a stranger to all the previous 
events of that stormy time was seen in various parts of 
the city, — in the cafes ^ the clubs, the haunts of the 
various factions; that, to the astonishment and dismay 
of his hearers, he talked aloud of the crimes of Bobes* 
pierre, and predicted his coming fall; and, as he spoke, 
he stirred up the hearts of men, he loosed the bonds of 
their fear, — he inflamed them with unwonted rage and 
daring. But what surprised them most was, that no 
voice replied, no hand was lifted against him, no 
minion, even of the tyrant, cried, “ Arrest the traitor.’’ 
In that impunity men read, as in a book, that the 
populace had deserted the man of blood. 

Once only a fierce, brawny Jacobin sprang up from 
the table at which he sat, drinking deep, and, approach- 
ing the stranger, said, "I seize thee, in the name of the 
Bepublic. ” 

“ Citizen Aristides,” answered the stranger, in a whis- 
per, “go to the lodgings of Bobespierre, — he is from 
home ; and in the left pocket of the vest which he cast 
off not an hour since thou wilt find a paper; when thou 
hast read that, return. I will await thee ; and if thou 
wouldst then seize me, I will go without a struggle. 
Look round on those lowering brows; touch me now^ 
and thou wilt be torn to pieces. ” 

The Jacobin felt as if compelled to obey against his 
will. He went forth muttering; he returned, — the 


ZANONL 


487 


stranger was still there. “ Mille tonnerres" he said 
to him , “ I thank thee ; the poltroon had my name in 
his list for the guillotine.” 

With that 'the Jacobin Aristides sprang upon the 
table and shouted, " Death to the Tyrant! ” 


488 


ZANONI. 


CHAPTEK XI. 

Le lendemain, 8 Therraidor, Robespierre se decida k prononcer 
son fameux discours.^ — Thiers, Hist, de la Revolution. 

The morning rose, — the 8th of Thermidor (July 26). 
Pohespierre has gone to the Convention, He has gone 
with his labored speech ; he has gone with his phrases 
of philanthropy and virtue; he has gone to single 
out his prey. All his agents are prepared for his recep- 
tion; the fierce St. Just has arrived from the armies to 
second his courage and inflame his wrath. His ominous 
apparition prepares the audience for the crisis. “ Citi- 
zens! ” screeched the shrill voice of Robespierre 
“others have placed before you flattering pictures; I 
come to announce to you useful truths. 

And they attribute to me , — to me alone I — whatever of 
harsh or evil is committed: it is Robespierre who 
wishes it; it is Robespierre who ordains it. Is there 
a new tax ? — it is Robespierre who ruins you. They 
call me tyrant ! — and why ? . Because I have acquired 
some influence ; hut how ? — in speaking truth ; and who 
pretends that truth is to be without force in the mouths 
of the Representatives of the French people ? Doubt- 
less, truth has its power, its rage, its despotism, its 
accents, touching, terrible, which resound in the pure 
heart as in the guilty conscience ; and which Falsehood 

1 The next day, 8th Thermidor, Robespierre resolved to deliver 
his celebrated discourse. 


ZANONI. 


489 


can no more imitate than Salmoneus could forge the 
thunderbolts of Heaven. What am I whom they 
accuse ? A slave of liberty , — a living martyr of the 
Eepuhlic; the victim as the enemy of crime! All 
ruffianism affronts me, and actions legitimate in others 
are crimes in me. It is enough to know me to he 
calumniated. It is in my very zeal that they discover 
my guilt. Take from me my conscience, and I should 
be the most miserable of men! ” 

He paused; and Couthon wiped his eyes, and St. Just 
murmured applause as with stern looks he gazed on the 
rebellious Mountain; and there was a dead, mournful, 
and chilling silence through the audience. The touch- 
ing sentiment woke no echo. 

The orator cast his eyes around. Ho! he will soon 
arouse that apathy. He proceeds; he praises, he pities 
himself no more. He denounces, — he accuses. Over- 
flooded with his venom, he vomits it forth on all. At 
home, abroad, finances, war, — on all! Shriller and 
sharper rose his voice , — 

“ A conspiracy exists against the public liberty. It 
owes its strength to a criminal coalition in the very 
bosom of the Convention; it has accomplices in the 
bosom of the Committee of Public Safety. . , . What 
is the remedy to this evil ? To punish the traitors ; to 
purify this committee; to crush all factions by the 
weight of the National Authority; to raise upon their 
ruins the power of Liberty and Justice. Such are the 
principles of that Reform. Must I be ambitious to pro- 
fess them? — then the principles are proscribed, and 
Tyranny reigns amongst us!. For what can you object 
to a man who is in the right, and has at least this 
knowledge, — he knows how to die for his native land! 
I am made to combat crime, and not to govern it. The 


490 


ZANONI. 


time, alas! is not yet arrived when men of worth can 
serve with impunity their country. So long as the 
knaves rule, the defenders of liberty will be only the 
proscribed.” 

For two hours, through that cold and gloomy audience, 
shrilled the Death- speech. In silence it began, in 
silence closed. The enemies of the orator were afraid 
to express resentment; they knew not yet the exact 
balance of power. His partisans were afraid to approve; 
they knew not whom of their own friends and relations 
the accusations were designed to single forth. " Take 
care! ” whispered each to each; “ it is thou whom he 
threatens.” But silent though the audience, it was, at 
the first, wellnigh subdued. There W’as still about this 
terrible man the spell of an overmastering will. 
Always — though not what is called a great orator — 
resolute, and sovereign in the use of words; words 
seemed as things when uttered by one who with a nod 
moved the troops of Henriot, and influenced the judg- 
ment of Rene Dumas, grim President of the Tribunal. 
Lecointre of Versailles rose, and there was an anxious 
movement of attention; for Lecointre was one of the 
fiercest foes of the tyrant. What was the dismay of the 
Tallien faction; what the complacent smile of Cou- 
thon, — when Lecointre demanded only that the oration 
should he printed! All seemed paralyzed. At length 
Bourdon de POise, whose name was doubly marked in 
the black list of the Dictator, stalked to the tribune, 
and moved the bold counter-resolution, that the speech 
should he referred to the two committees whom that 
very speech accused. Still no applause from the con- 
spirators; they sat torpid as ‘frozen men. The shrink- 
ing Barrere, ever on the prudent side, looked round 
before he rose. He rises, and sides with Lecointre! 


ZANONL 


491 


Then Couthon seized the occasion, and from Ms seat 
(a privilege permitt-ed alone to the paralytic philanthro- 
pist),^ and with his melodious voice sought to convert 
the crisis into a triumph. He demanded, not only that, 
the harangue should he printed, but sent to all the 
communes and all the armies. It was necessary to 
soothe a wronged and ulcerated heart. Deputies, the 
most faithful, had been accused of shedding blood. 

Ahl if he had contributed to the death of one inno- 
cent man, he should immolate himself with grieh”' 
Beautiful tenderness ! — and while he spoke, he fondled 
the spaniel in his bosom. Bravo, Couthon! Bobes- 
pierre triumphs! The reign of Terror shall endure 1 
The old submission settles dovelike back in the assem- 
bly! They vote the printing of the Death-speech, and 
its transmission to all the municipalities. From the 
benches of the Mountain, Tallien, alarmed, dismayed,, 
impatient, and indignant, cast his gaze where sat the 
strangers admitted to hear the debates; and suddenly 
he met the eyes of the Unknown who had brought to 
him the letter from Teresa de Fontenai the preceding 
day. The eyes fascinated him as he gazed. In after- 
times he often said that their regard, fixed, earnest, 
half- reproachful, and yet cheering and triumphant, filled 
him with new life and courage. They spoke to his 
heart as the trumpet speaks to the war-horse. He 
moved from his seat; he whispered with his allies: the 
spirit he had drawn in was contagious ; the men whom 
Bobespierre especially had denounced, and who saw the 

1 M. Thiers in his History, vol. iv. p. 79, makes a curious 
blunder: he says, “Couthon s’ dance a la tribune.^’ (Couthon 
darted towards the tribune.) Poor Couthon ! whose half body was 
dead, and who was always wheeled in his chair into the Conven- 
tion, and spoke sitting. 


492 


ZANONI. 


sword over their heads, woke from their torpid trance. 
Vadier, Cambon, Billaud-Varennes, Panis, Amar, rose 
at once, — all at once demanded speech. Vadier is first 
heard, the rest succeed. It burst forth, the Mountain, 
with its fires and consuming lava ; flood upon flood they 
rush, a legion of Ciceros upon the startled Catiline! 
Pobespierre falters, hesitates, — would qualify, retract. 
They gather new courage from his new fears; they 
interrupt him; they drown his voice; they demand the 
reversal of the motion. Amar moves again that the 
speech be referred to the Committees, to the Committees, 
— to his enemies ! Confusion and noise and clamor I 
Pobespierre wraps himself in silent and superb disdain. 
Pale, defeated, but not yet destroyed, he stands, — a 
storm in the midst of storm ! 

The motion is carried. All men foresee in that 
defeat the Dictator’s downfall. A solitary cry rose 
from the galleries; it was caught up; it circled through 
the hall, the audience; “A has le tyrant! Vive la 
re]yuhlique ! ” ^ 

1 Down with the tyrant ! Hurrah for the republic ! 


ZANONL 


493 


CHAPTER XII. 

Anpr^s d’un corps aussi avili que la Convention, il restait des 
chances pour que Robespierre sortit vainqueur de cette lutte.i — 
Lacretelle, vol. xii. 

As Robespierre left the hall, there was a dead and 
ominous silence in the crowd without. The herd, in 
every country, side with success; and the rats run from 
the falling tower. But Robespierre, who wanted cour- 
age, never wanted pride, and the last often supplied the 
place of the first; thoughtfully, and with an impene- 
trable brow, he passed through the throng, leaning on 
St. Just, Pay an and his brother following him. 

As they got into the open space, Robespierre abruptly 
broke the silence. 

“ How many heads were to fall upon the tenth ? ” 

" Eighty,” replied Payan. 

“Ah, we must not tarry so long; a day may lose an 
empire : terrorism must serve us yet ! ” 

He was silent a few moments, and his eyes roved 
suspiciously through the street. 

“St. Just,” he said abruptly, “they have not found 
this Englishman whose revelations, or whose trial, 
would have crushed the Amars and the Talliens. Xo, 
no! my Jacobins themselves are growing dull and blind. 
But they have seized a woman, — only a woman ! ” 

“A woman’s hand stabbed Marat,” said St. Just. 
Robespierre stopped short, and breathed hard. 

1 Amongst a body so debased as the Convention, there stili 
remained some chances that Robespierre would come off victor in 
the struggle. 


ZANONL 


494 

“ St. Just,” said he, “ when this peril is past, we will 
found the E-eign of Peace. There shall be homes and 
gardens set apart for the old. David is already design- 
ing the porticos. Virtuous men shall he appointed to 
instruct the young. All vice and disorder shall be not 
exterminated, — no, no! only banished! We must not 
die yet. Posterity cannot judge us till our work is 
done. We have recalled U Eire Sicpreme ; we must 
now remodel this corrupted world. All shall he love 
and brotherhood; and — ho! Simon! Simon! — hold! 
Your pencil, St. Just!” And Robespierre wrote hastily. 
“ This to Citizen President Dumas. Go with it quick, 
Simon. These eighty heads must fall to-morrow^ — to- 
'morrow^ Simon. Dumas will advance their trial a day. 
I will write to Pouquier-Tinville, the public accuser. 
We meet at the Jacobins to-night, Simon; there we 
will denounce the Convention itself; there we will 
rally round us the last friends of liberty and France.” 

A shout was heard in the distance behind, “ Vive la 
repuhlique ! ” 

The tyrant’s eye shot a vindictive gleam. “ The 
republic! — faugh! We did not destroy the throne of a 
thousand years for that canaille I ” 

The trial, the execution, of the victims is advanced 
a day ! By the aid of the mysterious intelligence that 
had guided and animated him hitherto, Zanoni learned 
that his arts had been in vain. He knew that Viola 
was safe, if she could but survive an hour the life of 
the tyrant. He knew that Robespierre’s hours were 
numbered; that the 10th of Thermidor, on which he 
had originally designed the execution of his last vic- 
tims, would see himself at the scaffold. Zanoni had 
toiled, had schemed for the. fall of the Butcher and his 
reign. To what end ? A single word from the tyrant 


ZANONI. 


495 


had baffled the result of all. The execution of Viola is 
advanced a day. Vain seer, who wouldst make thyself 
the instrument of the Eternal, the very dangers that 
now beset the tyrant but expedite the doom of his 
victims! To-morrow, eighty heads, and hers whose 
pillow has been thy heart! To-morrow! and Maxi- 
milien is safe to-night! 


496 


ZANONL 


CHAPTEK XIII. 

Erde mag zuriick in Erde stauben ; 

Eliegt der Geist dock aus dem morschen Hans. 

Seine Asche mag der Sturmwind treiben, 

Sein Leben dauert ewig aus ! ^ 

Elegie. 

To-morrow! — and it is already twilight. One after 
one, the gentle stars come smiling through the heaven. 
The Seine, in its slow waters, yet trembles with the 
last kiss of the rosy day : and still in the blue sky gleams 
the spire of Notre Dame; and still in the blue sky 
looms the guillotine by the Barriere du Trone. Turn 
to that time-worn building, once the church and the 
convent of the Freres-Precheurs, known by the then 
holy name of Jacobins; there the new Jacobins hold 
their club. There, in that oblong hall, once the library 
of the peaceful monks, assemble the idolaters of St. 
Robespierre. Two immense tribunes, raised at either 
end, contain the lees and dregs of the atrocious popu- 
lace, — the majority of that* audience consisting of the 
furies of the guillotine {furies de guillotine). In the 
midst of the hall are the bureau and chair of the presi- 
dent, — the chair long preserved by the piety of the 
monks as the relic of St. Thomas Aquinas! Above this 
seat scowls the harsh bust of Brutus. An iron lamp 
and two branches scatter over the vast room a murky, 
fuliginous ray, beneath the light of which the fierce 

1 Earth may crumble back into earth ; the Spirit will still escape 
from its frail tenement. The wind of the storm may scatter his 
ashes ; his being endures forever. 


ZANONI. 


497 


faces of that Pandemonium seem more grim and hag- 
gard. There, from the orator’s tribune, shrieks the 
shrill wrath of Eobespierre ! 

Meanwhile all is chaos, disorder, half daring and 
half cowardice, in the Committee of* his foes. Eumors 
fly from street to street, from haunt to haunt, from 
house to house. The swallows flit low, and the cattle 
group together before the storm. And above this roar 
of the lives and things of the little hour, alone in his 
chamber stood he on whose starry youth — symbol of 
the imperishable bloom of the calm Ideal amidst the 
mouldering Actual — the clouds of ages had rolled in 
vain. 

All those exertions which ordinary wit and courage 
could suggest had been tried in vain. All such exer- 
tions were in vain, where, in that Saturnalia of death, a 
life was the object. Nothing but the fall of Eobespierre 
could have saved his victims; now, too late, that fall 
would only serve to avenge. 

Once more, in that last agony of excitement and 
despair, the seer had plunged into solitude, to invoke 
again the aid or counsel of those mysterious intermedi- 
ates between earth and heaven who had renounced the 
intercourse of the spirit when subjected to the common 
bondage of the mortal. In the intense desire and 
anguish of his heart, perhaps, lay a power not yet called 
forth; for who has not felt that the sharpness of ex- 
treme grief cuts and grinds away many of those strongest 
bonds of infirmity and doubt which bind down the 
souls of men to the cabined darkness of the hour; and 
that from the cloud and thunderstorm often swoops the 
Olympian eagle that can ravish us aloft! 

And the invocation was heard , — the bondage of sense 
was rent away from the visual mind. He looked, and 


498 


ZANONI. 


saw, — no, not the being he had called, with its limbs of 
light and unutterably tranquil smile — not his familiar, 
Adon-Ai , the Son of Glory and the Star, but the Evil 
Omen, the dark Chimera, the implacable Eoe, with 
exultation and malice burning in its hell-lit eyes. The 
Spectre, no longer cowering and retreating into shadow, 
rose before him, gigantic and erect; the face, whose veil 
no mortal hand had ever raised, was still concealed, but 
the form was more distinct, corporeal, and cast from it, 
as an atmosphere, horror and rage and awe. As an ice- 
berg, the breath of that presence froze the air; as a 
cloud, it filled the chamber and blackened the stars from 
heaven. 

“ Lo! ” said its voice, “ I am here once more. Thou 
hast robbed me of a meaner prey. Now exorcise thy- 
self from my power! Thy life has left thee, to live in 
the heart of a daughter of the charnel and the worm. 
In that life I come to thee with my inexorable tread. 
Thou art returned to the Threshold, — thou, whose 
steps have trodden the verges of the Infinite ! And 
as the goblin of its fantasy seizes on a child in the 
dark, — mighty one, who wouldst conquer Death, — I 
seize on thee! ” 

“ Back to thy thraldom , slave ! If thou art come to 
the voice that called thee not, it is again not to com- 
mand, but to obey! Thou, from whose whisper I 
gained the boons of the lives lovelier and dearer than 
my own; thou, — I command thee, not by spell and 
charm, but by the force of a soul mightier than the 
malice of thy being, — thou serve me yet, and speak 
again the secret that can rescue the lives thou hast, by 
permission of the Universal Master, permitted me to 
retain awhile in the temple of the clay! ” 

Brighter and more devouringly burned the glare from 


ZANONI. 


499 


those lurid eyes; more visible and colossal yet rose the 
dilating shape; a yet fiercer and more disdainful hate 
spoke in the voice that answered, “ Didst thou think 
that my boon would he other than thy curse ? Happy 
for thee hadst thou mourned over the deaths which come 
by the gentle hand of Nature, — hadst thou never known 
how the name of mother consecrates the face of Beauty,, 
and never, bending over thy first-born, felt the imper> 
ishable sweetness of a father’s love! They are saved, 
for what? — the mother, for the death of violence and 
shame and blood, for the doomsman’s hand to put 
aside that shining hair which has entangled thy bride- 
groom kisses; the child, first and last of thine offspring, 
in whom thou didst hope to found a race that should 
hear with thee the music of celestial harps, and float, by 
the side of thy familiar, Adon-Ai, through the azure 
rivers of joy, — the child, to live on a few days as a 
fungus in a burial-vault, a thing of the loathsome 
dungeon, dying of cruelty and neglect and famine. 
Ha! ha! thou who wouldst baffle Death, learn how the 
deathless die if they dare to love the mortal. Now, 
Chaldean, behold my boons! Now I seize and wrap 
thee with the pestilence of my presence; now, evermore, 
till thy long race is run, mine eyes shall glow into thy 
brain, and mine arms shall clasp thee, when thou 
wouldst take the wings of the Morning and flee from the 
embrace of Night! ” 

“ I tell thee, no! And again I compel thee, speak and 
answer to the lord who can command his slave. I 
know, though my lore fails me, and the reeds on which 
I leaned pierce my side, — I know yet that it is written 
that the life of which I question can be saved from the 
headsman. Thou wrappest her future in the darkness 
of thy shadow, but thou canst not shape it. Thou 


500 


ZANONL 


mayest foreshow the antidote ; thou canst not effect the 
bane. From thee I wring the secret, though it torture 
thee to name it. I approach thee, — I look dauntless 
into thine eyes. The soul that loves can dare all 
things. Shadow, I defy thee, and compel! ” 

The spectre waned and recoiled. Like a vapor that 
lessens as the sun pierces and pervades it, the form 
shrank cowering and dwarfed in the dimmer distance, 
and through the casement again rushed the stars. 

“ Yes,” said the Voice, with a faint and hollovf 
accent, “ thou camt save her from ihe headsman; for it 
is written, that sacrifice can save. Ha! ha! ” And thf' 
shape again suddenly dilated into the gloom of its giant 
stature, and its ghastly laugh exulted, as if the Foe, a 
moment baffled, had regained its might. “ Ha! ha! 
— thou canst save her life, if thou wilt sacrifice F^'ne 
own! Is it for this thou hast lived on through n- 
bling empires and countless generations of tl -^ce? 
At last shall Death reclaim thee? Wouldst thou save 
her ? — die for her ! Fall, 0 stately column, over which 
stars yet unformed may gleam, — fall, that the herb at 
thy base may drink a few hours longer the sunligh^ and 
the dews ! Silent ! Art thou ready for the sacri ,ice ? 
See, the moon moves up through heaven. Beau'^iful 
and wise one, wilt thou bid her smile to-morrow on thy 
headless clay ? ” 

“Back! for my soul, in answering thee from depths 
where thou canst not hear it, has regained its glory; 
and I hear the wings of Adon-Ai gliding musical through 
the air.” 

He spoke; and, with a low shriek of baffled rage and 
hate, the Thing was gone, and through the room rushjd, 
luminous and sudden, the Presence of silvery light. 

As the heavenly visitor stood in the atmosphere of 


ZANONI. 


501 


his own lustre, and looked upon the face of the Theur- 
gist with an aspect of ineffable tenderness and love, all 
space seemed lighted from his smile. Along the blue 
air without, from that chamber in which his wings had 
halted, to the farthest star in the azure distance, ii 
seemed as if the track of his flight were visible, by a 
lengthened splendor in the air, like the column of moon- 
light on the sea. Like the flower that diffuses perfume 
the very breath of its life, so the emanation of that 
presence was joy. Over the world, as a million times 
swifter than light, than electricity, the Son of Glory had 
sped his way to the side of love, his wings had scattered 
delight as the morning scatters dew. For that brief 
moment. Poverty had ceased to mourn. Disease fled 
from its prey, and Hope breathed a dream of Heaven 
int-^ithe darkness of Despair. 

- .-^hou art right,” said the melodious Voice. “Thy 
coUi,.^''x has restored thy power. Once more, in the 
haunts jj.f earth, thy soul charms me to thy side. Wiser 
now, in the moment when thou comprehendest Death, 
than when thy unfettered spirit learned the solemn 
mystery of Life ; the human affections that thralled and 
humbled thee awhile bring to thee, in these last hours 
of thy mortality, the sublimest heritage of thy race, — 
the eternity that commences from the grave.” 

“ O Adon-Ai,” said the Chaldean, as, circumfused in 
the splendor of the visitant, a glory more radiant than 
human beauty settled round his form, and seemed 
already to belong to tlie eternity of Avhich the Bright 
One spoke, “ as men, before they die, see and compre- 
hend the enigmas hidden from them before,^ so in this 

greatest poet, and one of the noblest thinkers, of the last 
age said, on his deathbed, “ Many things obscure to me before, 
now 'dear up, and become visible/’ — See the Life of Schiller. 


502 


ZANONI. 


hour, when the sacrifice of self to another brings the 
►course of ages to its goal, I see the littleness of Life, 
‘Compared to the majesty of Death; but oh, Divine 
Consoler, even here, even in thy presence, the affections 
that inspire me, sadden. To leave behind me in this bad 
world, unaided, unprotected, those for whom I die! the 
wife! the child! — oh, speak comfort to me in this! ” 

" And what,” said the visitor, with a slight accent 
of reproof in the tone of celestial pity, — “what, with 
all thy wisdom and thy starry seCrets, with all thy 
empire of the past, and thy visions of the future ; what 
art thou to the All-Directing and Omniscient? Canst 
thou yet imagine that thy presence on earth can give to 
the hearts thou lovest the shelter w^hich the humblest 
take from the wings of the Presence that lives in 
heaven? Fear not thou for their future. Whether 
thou live or^die, their future is the care of the Most 
High! In the dungeon and on the scaffold looks 
everlasting the Eye of Him, tenderer than thou to love, 
wiser than thou to guide, mightier than thou to save! ” 
Zanoni bowed his head; and when he looked up 
again, the last shadow had left his brow. The visitor 
was gone ; but still the glory of his presence seemed to 
shine upon the spot, still the solitary air seemed to 
murmur with tremulous delight. And thus ever shall 
it be with those who have once, detaching themselves 
utterly from life, received the visit of the Angel 
Faith. Solitude and space retain the splendor, and it 
settles like a halo round their graves. 


ZANONI. 


503 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Dann zur Blumenflor der Sterne 
Anfgeschauet liebewarm, 

Pass’ ihn freundlich Arm in Arm 
Trag’ ihn in die blaue Feme. 

Uhland, An den Tod. 
Then towards the Garden of the Star 
Lift up thine aspect warm with love, 

And, friendlike link’d through space afar, 

Mount with him, arm in arm, above. 

Uhland, Poem to Death. 

He stood upon the lofty balcony that overlooked the 
quiet city. Though afar, the fiercest passions of men 
were at work on the web of strife and doom, all that 
gave itself to his view was calm and still in the rays of 
the summer moon, for his soul was wrapped from man 
and man’s narrow sphere, and only the serener glories 
of creation were present to the vision of the seer. 
There he stood, alone and thoughtful, to take the last 
farewell of the wondrous life that he had known. 

Coursing through the fields of space, he beheld the 
gossamer shapes, whose choral joys his spirit had so 
often shared. There, group upon group, they circled 
in the starry silence multiform in the unimaginable 
beauty of a being fed by ambrosial dews and serenest 
light. In his trance, all the universe stretched visible 
beyond; in the green valleys afar, he saw the dances of 
the fairies; in the bowels of the mountains, he beheld 
the race that breathe the lurid air of the volcanoes, 
8ind hide from the light of heaven ; on every leaf in the 


504 


ZANONI. 


nmuberless forests, in every drop of the unmeasured 
seas, he surveyed its separate and swarming world; far 
up, in the farthest blue, he saw orb upon orb ripening 
into shape, and planets starting from the central fire, 
to run their day of ten thousand years. For everywhere 
in creation is the breath of the Creator, and in every 
spot where the breath breathes is life! And alone, in 
the distance, the lonely man beheld his Magian brother. 
There, at work with his numbers and his Cabala, amidst 
the wrecks of Kome, passionless and calm, sat in his cell 
the mystic Mejnour, — living on, living ever while the 
world lasts, indifferent whether his knowledge produces 
weal or woe; a mechanical agent of a more tender and 
a wiser will, that guides every spring to its inscrutable 
designs. Living on, — living ever, — as science that 
cares alone for knowledge, and halts not to consider how 
knowledge advances happiness; how Human Improve- 
ment, rushing through civilization, crushes in its march 
all who cannot grapple to its. wheels;^ ever, with its 
Cabala and its number, lives on to change, in its blood- 
less movements, the face of the habitable world ! 

And, “ Oh, farewell to life I ” murmured the glorious 
dreamer. “ Sweet, O life 1 hast thou been to me. 
How fathomless thy joys, — how rapturously has my 
soul bounded forth upon the upward paths ! To him 

1 “ You colonize the lands of the savage with the Anglo-Saxon, 
— you civilize that portion of the earth ; but is the savage civilized ? 
He is exterminated ! You accumulate machinery, — you increase 
the total of wealth ; but what becomes of the labor you displace ? 
One generation is sacrificed to the next. You diffuse knowledge, — 
and the world seems to grow brighter ; but Discontent at Poverty 
replaces Ignorance, happy with its crust. Every improvement, 
every advancement in civilization, injures some, to benefit others, 
and either cherishes the want of to-day, or prepares the revolution 
of to-morrow.” — Stephen Montague. 


Z AN ONI. 


505 


who forever renews his youth in the clear fount of 
Nature, how exquisite is the mere happiness to he ! 
Farewell, ye lamps of heaven, and ye million tribes, 
the Populace of Air. Not a mote in the beam, not an 
herb on the mountain, not a pebble on the shore, not 
a seed far-blown into the wilderness, but contributed 
to the lore that sought in all the true principle of life, 
the Beautiful, the Joyous, the Immortal. To others, a 
land, a city, a hearth, has been a home; my home has 
been wherever the intellect could pierce, or the spirit 
Could breathe the air.” 

He paused, and through the immeasurable space his 
eyes and his heart, penetrating the dismal dungeon, 
rested on his child. He saw it slumbering in the arms 
of the pale mother, and his soul spoke to the sleeping 
soul. “ Forgive me, if my desire was sin ; I dreamed 
to have reared and nurtured thee to the divinest des- 
tinies my visions could foresee. Betimes, as the mortal 
part was strengthened against disease, to have purified 
the spiritual from every sin; to have led thee, heaven 
upon heaven, through the holy ecstasies which make 
up the existence of the orders that dwell on high; to 
have formed, from thy sublime affections, the pure and 
ever-living communication between thy mother and 
myself. The dream was but a dream, — it is no more! 
In sight myself of the grave, I feel, at last, that through 
the portals of the grave lies the true initiation into the 
holy and the wise. Beyond those portals I await ye 
both, beloved pilgrims ! ” 

From his numbers and his Cabala, in his cell, amidst 
the wrecks of Borne, Mejnour, startled, looked up, and 
through the spirit, felt that the spirit of his distant 
friend addressed him. 

“ Fare thee well forever upon this earth ! Thy last 


506 


ZANONI. 


companion forsakes thy side. Thine age survives the 
youth of all; and the Tinal Day shall find thee still 
the contemplator of our tombs. I go with my free 
will into the land of darkness; but new suns and sys- 
tems blaze around us from the grave. I go where the 
souls of those for whom I resign the clay shall be my 
co-mates through eternal youth. At last I recognize 
the true ordeal and the real victory. Mejnour, cast 
down thy elixir ; lay by thy load of years ! Wherever 
the soul can wander, the Eternal Soul of all things pro- 
tects it still ! ” 


ZANONI. 


507 


CHAPTER XV. 


Us ne veulent plus perdre un moment d’une nuit si precieuseA 

Lacretelle, tom. xii. 

It was late that night, and Eene-FranQois Dumas, 
President of the Revolutionary Tribunal, had re-entered 
his cabinet, on his return from the Jacobin Club. 
With him were two men who might be said to represent, 
the one the moral, the other the physical force of the 
Reign of Terror: Pouquier-Tinville, the Public 
Accuser, and Francois Henriot, the General of the 
Parisian National Guard. This formidable triumvirate 
were assembled to debate on the proceedings of the next 
day; and the three sister-witches over their hellish 
caldron were scarcely animated by a more fiend-like 
spirit, or engaged in more execrable designs, than these 
three heroes of the Revolution in their premeditated 
massacre of the morrow. 

Dumas was but little altered in appearance since, in 
the earlier part of this narrative, he was presented to 
the reader, except that his manner was somewhat more 
short and severe, and his eye yet more restless. But 
he seemed almost a superior being by the side of his 
associates. Rene Dumas, born of respectable parents, 
and well educated, despite his ferocity, was not without 
a certain refinement, which perhaps rendered him the 
more acceptable to the precise and formal Robespierre.^ 
But Henriot had been a lackey, a thief, a spy of the 

1 They would not lose another moment of so precious a night. 

2 Dumas was a beau in his way. His gala-dress was a blood-red 
coat, with the finest ruffles. 


508 


ZANONI. 


police; he had drunk the blood of Madame de Lamballe, 
and had risen to his present rank for no quality hut 
his ruffianism; and Fouquier-Tinville, the son of a 
provincial agriculturist, and afterwards a clerk at the 
Bureau of the Police, was little less base in his manners, 
and yet more, from a certain loathsome buffoonery, 
revolting in his speech, — bull-headed, with black, sleek 
hair, with a narrow and livid forehead, with small eyes, 
that twinkled with a sinister malice; strongly and 
coarsely built, he looked what he was, the audacious 
bully of a lawless and relentless Bar. 

Dumas trimmed the candles, and bent over the list 
of the victims for the morrow. 

“ It is a long catalogue,” said the president; “ eighty 
trials for one day ! And Bobespierre’s orders to despatch 
the whole fournee are unequivocal. ” 

“Pooh! ” said Pouquier, with a coarse, loud laugh; 
“ we must try them en masse. I know how to deal 
with our jury. ‘ Je pense, citoyenSj que vous etes 
convaincus du crime des accuses ? ’ ^ Ha ! ha ! — the 
longer the list, the shorter the work.” 

“ Oh, yes,” growled out Henriot, with an oath, — as 
usual, half-drunk, and lolling on his chair, with his 
spurred heels on the table, — “ little Tinville is the 
man for despatch.” 

“ Citizen Henriot,’’ said Dumas, gravely, “ permit me 
to request thee to select another footstool ; and for the 
rest, let me warn thee that to-morrow is a critical and 
important day; one that will decide the fate of France.” 

“ A fig for little France! Vive le Vertueux Rohes' 
pierre^ la Colonne de la Repuhlique ! ^ Plague on this 

1 I think, citizens, that you are convinced of the crime of the 
accused. 

^ Long life to the virtuous Kobespierre, the pillar of the Kepublic ! 


ZANONI. 


509 


talking; it is dry work. Hast thou no eau de vie in 
that little cupboard ? ” 

Dumas and Fouquier exchanged looks of disgust. 
Dumas shrugged his shoulders, and replied, — 

“ It is to guard thee against eau de vie^ Citizen Gen- 
eral Henriot, that I have requested thee to meet me 
here. Listen if thou canst! ” 

“Oh, talk away! thy metier is to talk, mine to fight . 
and to drink.” 

“To-morrow, I tell thee then, the populace will he 
abroad ; all factions will he astir. It is probable enough 
that they will even seek to arrest our tumbrils on their 
way to the guillotine. Have thy men armed and ready ; 
keep the streets clear; cut down without mercy whom- 
soever may obstruct the ways. ” 

“I understand,” said Henriot, striking his sword so 
loudly that Dumas half-started at the clank, — “ Black 
Henriot is no ^Indulgent.' ” 

“ Look to it, then, citizen, — look to it! And hark 
thee,” he added, with a grave and sombre brow, ’“if 
thou wouldst keep thine own head on thy shoulders, 
beware of the eau de vie.” 

“ My own head ! — sacre mille tonnerres. 1 Dost thou 
threaten the general of the Parisian army? ” 

Dumas, like Bobespierre, a precise, atrabilious, and 
arrogant man, was about to retort, when the craftier 
Tinville laid his hand on his arm , and', turning to the 
general, said, “ My dear Henriot, thy dauntless repub- 
licanism, which is too ready to give offence, must learn 
to take a reprimand from the representative of Republi- 
can Law. Seriously, mon cher^ thou must be sober for 
the next three or four days ; after the crisis is over, thou 
and I will drink a bottle together. Come, Dumas, relax 


510 


ZANONI. 


thine austerity, and shake hands with our friend. No 
quarrels amongst ourselves ! ” 

Dumas hesitated, and extended his hand, which the 
ruffian clasped; and, maudlin tears succeeding his fero* 
city, he half -sobbed, half-hiccoughed forth his protesta- 
tions of civism and his promises of sobriety. 

“Well, we depend on thee, mon general^^^ said 
Dumas ; “ and now, since we shall all have need of 
vigor for to-morrow, go home and sleep soundly.” 

“Yes, I forgive thee, Dumas, — I forgive thee. I 
am not vindictive, — I! but still, if a man threatens 
me; if a man insults me — ” and, with the quick 
changes of intoxication, again his eyes gleamed fire 
through their foul tears. With some difficulty Fouquier 
succeeded at last in soothing the brute, and leading him 
from the chamber. But still, as some wild beast disap- 
pointed of a prey, he growled and snarled as his heavy 
tread descended the stairs. A tall trooper, mounted, 
was leading Henriot’s hoTse to and fro the streets; and 
as the general waited at the porch till his attendant 
turned, a stranger stationed by the wall accosted him: 

“ General Henriot, I have desired to speak with thee. 
Next to Eobespierre, thou art. Or shouldst be, the most 
powerful man in France. ” 

“ Hem! — yes, I ought to be. What then? — every 
man has not his deserts ! ” 

‘^Hist!” said the stranger; “thy pay is scarcely 
suitable to thy rank and thy wants.” 

“ That is true.” 

“ Even in a revolution , a man takes care of his 
fortunes! ” 

“ Diahle / speak out, citizen. ” 

“ I have a thousand pieces of gold with me, — they are 
thine, if thou wilt grant me one small favor.” 


ZANOm. 


511 


“ Citizen, I grant it! ” said Henriot, waving his hand 
majestically. “ Is it to denounce some rascal who has 
offended thee ? ” ^ 

“Ko; it is simply this: write these words to Presi- 
dent Dumas, ‘ Admit the bearer to thy presence; and* 
if thou canst, grant him the request he will make to 
thee, it will be an inestimable obligation to Franqois 
Henriot.’ ” The stranger, as he spoke, placed pencil 
and tablets in the shaking hands of the soldier. 

“ And where is the gold I ” d 

“Here.^’ 

With some difiSculty, Henriot scrawled the words 
dictated to him, clutched the gold, mounted his horse, 
and was gone. 

Meanwhile Fouquier, when he had closed the dOor 
upon Henriot, said sharply, “ How canst thou be so 
mad as to incense that brigand ? Knowest thou not that 
our laws are nothing without the physical force of the 
National Guard, and that he is their leader? ” 

" I know this, that Pobespierre must have been mad to 
place that drunkard at their head ; and mark my words,' 
Fouquier, if the struggle come, it is that man’s inca-' 
pacity and cowardice that will destroy us. Yes, thou 
mayst live thyself to accuse thy beloved Robespierre, 
and to perish in his fall.” 

“ For all that, we must keep well with Henriot till 
we can find the occasion to seize and behead him. To 
be safe, we must fawn on those who are still in power; 
and fawn the more, the more we would depose them. 
Do not think this Henriot, when he wakes to-morrow, 
will forget thy threats. He is the most revengeful of 
human beings. Thou must send and soothe him in the 
morning! ” 

** Eight,” said Dumas, convinced. “ I was too hasty; 


512 


ZANONI. 


and now I think we have nothing further to do, since 
we have arranged to make short work with our fournee 
of to-morrow. I see in the list a knave I have long 
marked out, though his crime once procured me a 
legacy, — Nicot, the Hebertist.” 

“ And young Andre Chenier, the poet ? Ah, I 
forgot; we beheaded him to-day! Revolutionary virtue 
is at its acme. His own brother abandoned him.”^ 

“ There is a foreigner, — an Italian woman in the list ; 
but I can find no charge made out against her.” 

“ All the same we must execute her for the sake of 
the round number; eighty sounds better than seventy- 
nine! ” 

Here a huissier brought a paper on which was written 
the request of Henriot. 

‘‘Ah! this is fortunate,” said Tinville, to whom 
Dumas chucked the scroll, — “ grant the prayer by all 
means; so at least that it does not lessen our bead-roll. 
But I will do Henriot the justice to say that he never 
asks to let off, but to put on. Good-night! I am 
worn out — my escort waits below. Only on such an 
occasion would I venture forth in the streets at night.” ^ 
And Fouquier, with a long yawn, quitted the room. 

^ His brother is said, indeed, to have contributed to the con- 
demnation of this virtuous and illustrious person. He was heard 
to cry aloud, “Si mon frere est coupable, qu’il perisse” (If my 
brother be culpable, let him die). This brother, Marie-Joseph, also 
a poet, and the author of “Charles IX.,” so celebrated in the 
earlier days of the Eevolution, enjoyed, of course, according to 
the wonted justice of the world, a triumphant career, and was pro- 
claimed in the Champ de Mars “le premier des poetes Frangais,” 
a title due to his murdered brother. 

^ 2 During the latter part of the Feign of Terror, Fouquier rarely 
stirred out at night, and never without an escort. In the Feign of 
Terror those most terrified were its kings. 


ZANONI. 


513 


" Admit the bearer! ” said Dumas, who, withered and 
dried, as lawyers in practice mostly are, seemed to 
require as little sleep as his parchments. 

Tho stranger entered. 

“ Eene-FranQois Dumas,” said he, seating himself 
opposite to the president, and markedly adopting the 
plural, as if in contempt of the revolutionary jargon, 
“ amidst the excitement and occupations of your later 
life, I know not if you can remember that we have met 
before 1 ” 

The judge scanned the features of his visitor, and a 
pale blush settled on his sallow cheeks, “ Yes, citizen, 
I remember! ” 

“And you recall the words I then uttered! You 
spoke tenderly and philanthropically of your horror of 
capital executions; you exulted in the approaching 
Devolution as the termination of all sanguinary punish- 
ments ; you quoted reverently the saying of ‘Maximilien 
Eobespierre, the rising statesman, ‘ The executioner is 
the invention of the tyrant: ’ and I replied, that while 
you spoke, a foreboding seized me that we should meet 
again when your ideas of death and the philosophy of 
revolutions might be changed! Was I right. Citizen 
E^ne-Franqois Dumas, President of the Eevolutionary 
Tribunal ? ” 

“Pooh!” said Dumas, with some confusion on his 
brazen brow, “ I spoke then as men speak who have not 
acted. Devolutions are not made with rose-water! 
But truce to the gossip of the long-ago. I remember, 
also, that thou didst then save the life of my relation, 
and it will please thee to learn that his intended mur 
derer will be guillotined to-morrow. ” 

“ That concerns yourself, — your justice or your 
revenge. Permit me the egotism to remind you that 

33 


514 


ZANONI. 


you then promised that if ever a day should come wher. 
you could serve me, your life — yes, the phrase was, 
‘ your heart’s blood ’ — was at my bidding. Think 
not, austere judge, that I come to ask a boon that can 
affect yourself, — I come but to ask a day’s respite for 
another! ” 

Citizen, it is impossible ! T have the order of 
Robespierre that not one less than the total on my list 
must undergo their trial for to-morrow. As for the 
verdict, that rests with the jury! ” 

" I do not ask you to diminish the catalogue. Listen 
still! In your death-roll there is the name of an 
Italian woman whose youth, whose beauty, and whose 
freedom, not only from every crime, but every tangible 
charge, will excite only compassion, and not terror. 
Even you would tremble to pronounce her sentence. It 
will be dangerous on a day when the populace will be 
excited, when your tumbrils may he arrested, to expose 
youth and innocence and beauty to the pity and courage 
of a revolted crowd.” 

Dumas looked up and shrunk from the eye of the 
stranger. 

“ I do not deny, citizen, that there is reason in what 
thou urgest. But my orders are positive.” 

“ Positive only as to the number of the victims. I 
offer you a substitute for this one. I offer you the head 
of a man who knows all of the very conspiracy which 
now threatens Robespierre and yourself, and compared 
with one clew to which, you would think even eighty 
ordinary lives a cheap purchase.” 

“ That alters the case, ” said Dumas, eagerly ; “ if thou 
canst do this, on my own responsibility I will postpone 
the trial of the Italian. Now name the proxy! ” 

“ You behold him! ” 


ZANONI. 


1 .515 


^ “ Thou! ? exclaimed Dumas, while a fear he could not 

conceal betrayed itself through his surprise. "Thou! 
, ■ — and thou comest to me alone at night, to offer thyselt 
^ to justice. -‘Ha! — this is a snare. Tremble, fool! — 
l.thou art in my power, and I can have both ! ” 

. “You can,” said the stranger, with a calm smile of 
! disdain; “but my life is valueless without my revela- 
tions. Sit still, I command you, — hear me! ” and the 
light in those dauntless eyes spell-bound and awed the 
judge. “ You will remove me to the Conciergerie, — you 
will fix my trial, under the name of Zanoni, amidst your 
fournee of to-morrow. If I do not satisfy you by my 
speech, you hold the woman I die to save as your host- 
age. It is but the reprieve for her of a single day that 
I demand. The day following#the morrow I shall be 
dust, and you may wreak your vengeance on the life that 
remains. Tush! judge and condemner of thousands, 
do you hesitate, — do you imagine that the- man who 
voluntarily offers himself to death will be daunted into 
, uttering one syllable at your Bar against his will 1 
Have you not had experience enough of the inflexibility 
of pride and courage 1 President, I place before you the 
ink and implements! Write to the jailer a reprieve of 
one day for the woman whose life can avail you nothing, 
and I will bear the order to my own prison: I, who can 
now tell this much as an earnest of what I can com- 
municate, — while I speak, your own name, judge, is in 
a list of death. I can tell you by whose hand it is 
written down; I can tell you in what quarter to look 
for. danger; I can tell you from what cloud, in this 
lurid atmosphere, hangs the storm that shall burst on 
Robespierre and his reign ! ” 

Dumas grew pale ; and his eyes vainly sought to escape 
the magnetic gaze that overpowered and mastered him. 


516 


ZANONI. 


Mechanically, and as if under an agency not his own, 
he wrote while the stranger dictated. 

“ Well,” he said then, forcing a smile to his lips, 
“I promised I would serve you; see, I am faithful to 
my word. I suppose that you are one of those fools of 
feeling, — those professors of anti -revolutionary virtue, 
of whom I have seen not a few before my Bar. Faugh? 
it sickens me to see those who make a merit of incivism, 
and perish to save some bad patriot, because it is a son, 
or a father, or a wife, or a daughter, who is saved.” 

“I am one of those fools of feeling,” said the stran- 
ger, rising. “ You have divined aright.” 

“ And wilt thou not, in return for my mercy, utter 
to-night the revelations thou wouldst proclaim to- 
morrow? Come; a»d perhaps thou too — nay, the 
woman also — may receive, not reprieve, hut pardon.” 

“ Before your tribunal, and there alone! Nor will I 
deceive you, president. My information may avail you 
not; and even while I show the cloud, the bolt may fall.” 

“Tush! prophet, look to thyself! Go, madman, 
go. I know too well the contumacious obstinacy of the 
class to which I suspect thou belongest, to waste further 
words. Diahle ! but ye grow so accustomed to look 
on death, that ye forget the respect ye owe to it. Since 
thou offerest me thy head, I accept it. To-morrow 
thou mayst repent; it will be too late.” 

“Ay, too late, president! ” echoed the calm visitor. 

“ But, remember, it is not pardon, it is but a day’s 
reprieve, I have promised to this woman. According 
as thou dost satisfy me to-morrow, she lives or dies. I 
am frank, citizen; thy ghost shall not haunt me for 
want of faith.” 

“ It is but a day that I have asked ; the rest I leave to 
justice and to Heaven. Your huissiers wait below.” 


ZANONL 


517 


CHAPTER XYI. 

tJnd den Mordstahl seh’ ich blinken ; 

Und das Morderauge gluhn ! i 

Kassandra. 

Yiola was in the prison that opened not hut for those 
already condemned before adjudged. Since her exile 
from Zanoni, her very intellect had seemed paralyzed. 
All that beautiful exuberance of fancy which, if not the 
fruit of genius, seemed its blossoms; all that gush of 
exquisite thought which Zanoni had justly told her 
flowed with mysteries and subtleties ever new to him, 
the wise one, — all were gone, annihilated ; the blossom 
withered, the fount dried up. Eroni something almost 
above womanhood, she seemed listlessly to sink into 
something below childhood. With the inspirer the 
inspirations had ceased; and, in deserting love, genius 
also was left behind. 

She scarcely comprehended why she had been thus 
torn from her home and the mechanism of her dull 
tasks,. She scarcely knew what meant those kindly 
groups, that, struck with her exceeding loveliness, had 
gathered round her in the prison, with mournful looks, 
but with words of comfort. She, who had hitherto been 
taught to abhor those whom Law condemns for crime, 
was amazed to hear that beings thus compassionate and 
tender, with cloudless and lofty brows, with gallant and 
gentle mien, were criminals for whom Law had no 

1 And I see the steel of Murder glitter. 

And the eye of Murder glow. 


518 . 


ZANONL-. 


punishment short of death. But they, the savages, 
gaunt and menacing, who had dragged her from her 
home, who had attempted to snatch from her the infant 
while she clasped it in her arms, and laughed fierce scorn 
at her mute, quivering’ lips, — they were the chosen citi- 
zens, the men of virtue, the favorites of Power, the minis- 
ters of Law! Such thy black caprices, 0 thou, the 
ever-shifting and calumnious, — Human Judgment! 

A squalid, and yet a gay world, did the prison-houses 
of that day present. There, as in the sepulchre to which 
they led, all ranks were cast with an even-handed scorn. 
And yet there, the reverence that comes from great 
emotions restored Nature’s first and imperishable, and 
most lovely, and most noble Law, — the inequality 
BETWEEN MAN AND MAN ! There, place was given hj 
the prisoners, whether royalists or sans-culottes, to Age, 
to Learning, to Benown, to Beauty; and Strength, with 
its own inborn chivalry, raised into rank the helpless and 
the weak. The iron sinews and the Herculean shoulders 
made way for the woman and the child; and the graces 
of Humanity, lost elsewhere, sought their refuge in the 
abode of Terror. 

“ And wherefore, my child, do they bring thee hither ? 
asked an old, gray-haired priest. 

“ I cannot guess. ” 

“ Ah, if you know not your offence, fear the worst ! ” 

“ And my child ? ” — for the infant was still suffered to 
rest upon her bosom. 

“ Alas, young mother, they will suffer thy child to 
live. ” 

“ And for this, — an orphan in the dungeon ! ” mur- 
mured the accusing heart of Viola, — “ have I reserved 
his offspring! Zanoni, even in thought, ask not — ask 
not what I have done with the child I bore thee ! ” 


ZANONI. 


519 


Night came; the crowd rushed to the grate to hear 
the muster-roll.^ Her name was with the doomed. 
And the old priest, better prepared to die, hut reserved 
from the death-list, laid his hands on her head, and 
blessed her while he wept. She heard, and wondered ; 
but she did not weep. With downcast eyes, with arms 
folded on her bosom, she bent submissively to the call. 
But now another name was uttered; and a man, who 
had pushed rudely past her to gaze or to listen, shrieked 
out a howl of despair and rage. She turned, and their 
eyes met. Through the distance of time she recognized 
that hideous aspect. Nicot’s face settled back into its 
devilish sneer. “At least, gentle Neapolitan, the 
guillotine will unite us. Oh, we shall sleep well our 
wedding-night! ” And, with a laugh, he strode away 
through the crowd, and vanished into his lair. 

She was placed in her gloomy cell, to await the 
morrow. But the child was still spared her; and she 
thought it seemed as if conscious of the awful present. 
In their way to the prison it had not moaned or wept ; it 
had looked with its clear eyes, unshrinking, on the 
gleaming pikes and savage brows of the huissiers. And 
now, alone in the dungeon, it put its arms round her 
neck, and murmured its indistinct sounds, low and sweet 
as some unknown language of consolation and of heaven. 
And of heaven it was I — for, at the murmur, the terror 
melted from her soul: upward, from the dungeon and 
the death, — upward, where the happy cherubim chant 
the mercy of the All-loving, whispered that cherub’s 
voice. She fell upon her knees and prayed. The 
despoilers of all that beautifies and hallows life had 
desecrated the altar, and denied the God ! — they had 
1 Called, in the mocking jargon of the day, “ The Evening Gazette.” 


520 


ZANONI. 


removed from the last hour of their victims the Priest, 
the Scripture, and the Cross! But Paith builds in the 
dungeon and the lazar-house its suhlimest shrines; and 
up, through roofs of stone, that shut out the eye of 
Heaven, ascends the ladder where the angels glide to 
and fro, — Prayer. 

And there, in the very cell beside her own, the 
atheist Nicot sits stolid amidst the darkness, and hugs 
the thought of Danton, that death is nothingness.^ 
His, no spectacle of an appalled and perturbed consci- 
ence ! Bemorse is the echo of a lost virtue, and virtue 
he never knew. Had he to live again, he would live 
the same. But more terrible than the death-bed of a 
believing and despairing sinner that blank gloom of 
apathy, — that contemplation of the worm and the rat of 
the charnel-house ; that grim and loathsome nothingness 
which, for his eye, falls like a pall over the universe of 
life. Still, staring into space, gnawing his livid lip, he 
looks upon the darkness, convinced that darkness is for- 
ever and forever! 


Place, there ! place ! Boom yet in your crowded cells. 
Another has come to the slaughter-house. 

As the jailer, lamp in hand, ushered in the stranger, 
the latter touched him and whispered. The stranger 
drew a jewel from his finger. Diantre^ how the diamond 
flashed in the ray of the lamp ! Value each head of your 
eighty at a thousand francs, and the jewel is more worth 
than all ! The jailer paused, and the diamond laughed 
in his dazzled eyes. 0 thou Cerberus, thou hast mas- 
tered all else that seems human in that fell employ ! 
Thou hast no pity, no love, and no remorse. But 

^ “ Ma demeure sera bientot le neant ” ( My abode will soon be 
Nothingness ), said Danton before his judges. 


ZANONI. 


521 


Avarice survives the rest, and the foul heart’s master- 
serpent swallows up the tribe. Ha! ha! crafty stranger, 
thou hast conquered ! They tread the gloomy corridor ; 
they arrive at the door where the jailer has placed the 
fatal mark, now to he erased, for the prisoner within is 
to be reprieved a day. The key grates in the lock ; the 
door yawns, — the stranger takes the lamp and enters. 


522 


ZANONI. 


CHAPTEE THE SEVENTEENTH AND LAST. 

Cosi vince GrofCredo ! ^ 

Ger, Lib , cant, xx.-xliv. 

And Viola was in prayer. She heard not the opening 
of the door; she saw not the dark shadow that fell along 
the floor. His power, Ms arts were gone; hut the 
mystery and the spell known to her simple heart did not 
desert her in the hours of trial and despair. When 
Science falls as a firework from the sky it would invade ; 
when Genius withers as a flower in the breath of the icy 
charnel, — the hope of a child-like soul wraps the air in 
light, and the innocence of unquestioning Belief covers 
the grave with blossoms. 

In the farthest corner of the cell she knelt ; and the 
infant, as if to imitate what it could not comprehend, 
bent its little limbs, and bowed its smiling face, and 
knelt with her also, by her side. 

He stood and gazed upon them as the light of the lamp 
fell calmly on their forms. It fell over those clouds of 
golden hair, dishevelled, parted, thrown back from the 
rapt, candid brow ; the dark eyes raised on high, where, 
through the human tears, a light as from above was 
mirrored ; the hands clasped, the lips apart, the form all 
animate and holy with the sad serenity of innocence and 
the touching humility of woman. And he heard her 
voice, though it scarcely left her lips : the low voice that 
the heart speaks, — loud enough for God to hear! 

1 Thus conquered Godfrey. 


ZANONI. 


523 


“ And if never more to see him, 0 Father ! Canst 
Thou not make the love that will not die, minister, even 
beyond the grave, to his earthly fate ? Canst Thou not 
yet permit it, as a living spirit, to hover over him, — a. 
spirit fairer than all his science can conjure ? Oh, what- 
ever lot he ordained to either, grant — even though a 
thousand ages may roll between us — grant, when at last 
purified and regenerate, and fitted for the transport of 
such reunion — grant that we may meet once more I 
And for his child, — it kneels to Thee from the dungeon 
floor! To-morrow, and whose breast shall cradle it; 
whose hand shall feed; whose lips shall pray for its 
weal below and its soul hereafter ! ” She paused, — her 
voice choked with sobs. 

“Thou Viola! — thou, thyself. He whom thou hast 
deserted is here to preserve the mother to the child! ” 

She started ! — those accents, tremulous as her own I 
She started to her feet ! — he was there, — in all the 
pride of his unwaning youth and superhuman beauty; 
there, in the house of dread, and in the hour of travail; 
there, image and personation of the love that can 
pierce the Valley of the ■ Shadow, and can glide, the 
unscathed wanderer from the heaven, through the roar- 
ing abyss of hell ! 

With a cry never, perhaps, heard before in that 
gloomy vault, — a cry of delight and rapture, she sprang 
forward, and fell at his feet. 

He bent down to raise her ; but she slid from his arms. 
He called her by the familiar epithets of the old endear- 
ment, and she only answered him by sobs. Wildly, 
passionately, she kissed his hands, the hem of his 
garment, but voice was gone. 

“ Look up, look up ! — I am here, — I am here to save 
thee ! Wilt thou deny to me thy sweet face 1 Truant, 
wouldst thou fly me still I ” 


524 


ZANONI. 


“ Fly thee! ” she said, at last, and in a broken voice; 
“ oh, if my thoughts wronged thee, — oh, if my dream, 
that awful dream, deceived, — kneel down with me, and 
pray for our child I ” Then springing to her feet with a 
sudden impulse, she caught up the infant, and, placing 
it in his arms, sobbed forth, with deprecating and 
humble tones, “ Not for my sake, — not for mine, did I 
abandon thee, but — ” 

“ Hush ! ” said Zanoni ; “ I know all the thoughts that 
thy confused and struggling senses can scarcely analyze 
themselves. And see how, with a look, thy child 
answers them.' ! * 

And in truth the face of that strange infant seemed 
radiant with its silent and unfathomable joy. It seemed 
as if it recognized the father ; it clung — it forced itself 
to his breast, and there, nestling, turned its bright, clear 
eyes upon Viola, and smiled. 

“ Pray for my child! ” said Zanoni, mournfully. “ The 
thoughts of souls that would aspire as mine are all 
'prayer And, seating himself by her side, he began 
to reveal to her some of the holier secrets of his lofty 
being. He spoke of the sublime and intense faith from 
which alone the diviner knowledge can arise, — the faith 
which, seeing the immortal everywhere, purifies and 
exalts the mortal that beholds, the glorious ambition that 
dwells not in the cabals and crimes of earth, but amidst 
those solemn wonders that speak not of men, but of God; 
of that power to abstract the soul from the clay which 
gives to the eye of the soul its subtle vision, and to the 
soul’s wing the unlimited realm; of that pure, severe, 
and daring initiation from which the mind emerges, as 
from death, into clear perceptions of its kindred with the 
Father-Principles of life and light, so that in its own 
sense of the Beautiful it finds its joy; in the serenity of 


ZANONI. 


525 


its will, its power ; in its sympathy with the youthfulness 
of the Infinite Creation, of which itself is an essence and 
a part, the secrets that embalm the very clay which they 
consecrate, and renew the strength of life with tho 
ambrosia of mysterious and celestial sleep. And while 
he spoke, Viola listened, breathless. If she could not 
comprehend, she no longer dared to distrust. She felt 
that in that enthusiasm, self-deceiving or not, no fiend 
could lurk; and by an intuition, rather than an effort of 
the reason, she saw before her, like a starry ocean, the 
depth and mysterious beauty of the soul which her fears 
had wronged. Yet, when he said (concluding his strange 
confessions) that to this life ivithin life and above life he 
had dreamed to raise her own, the fear of humanity 
crept over her, and he read in her silence how vain, 
with all his science, would the dream have been. 

But now, as he closed, and, leaning on his breast, she 
felt the clasp of his protecting arms, — when, in one 
holy kiss, the past was forgiven and the present lost, — 
then there returned to her the sweet and warm hopes of 
the natural life, of the loving woman. He was come to 
save her ! She asked not how, — she believed it without 
a question. They should be at last again united. They 
would fly far from those scenes of violence and blood. 
Their happy Ionian isle, their fearless solitudes, would 
once more receive them. She laughed, with a child’s joy, 
as this picture rose up amidst the gloom of the dungeon. 
Her mind, faithful to its sweet, simple instincts, refused 
to receive the lofty images that flitted confusedly by it, 
and settled back to its human visions, yet more baseless, 
of the earthly happiness and the tranquil home. 

“ Talk not now to me, beloved, — talk not more now 
to me of the past I Thoii art here, — thou wilt save me ; 
we shall live yet the ‘common happy life- that life with 


526 


ZANONL 


thee is happiness and glory enough to me. Traverse, 
if thou wilt, in thy pride of soul, the universe ; thy 
heart again is the universe to mine. I thought hut now 
that I was prepared to die ; I see thee, touch thee, and 
again I know how beautiful a thing is life ! See through 
the grate the stars are fading from the sky ; the morrow 
will soon he here, — the morrow which will open the 
prison doors ! Thou sayest thou canst save me, — I will 
not doubt it now. Oh, let us dwell no more in cities! 
I never doubted thee in our lovely isle; no dreams 
haunted me there, except dreams of joy and beauty, 
and thine eyes made yet more beautiful and joyous 
the world in waking. To-morrow I — why do you not 
smile? To-morrow, love! is not to-morrow a blessed 
word! Cruel! you would punish me still, that you will 
not share my joy. Aha ! see our little one, how it 
laughs to my eyes ! I will talk to that. Child, thy 
father is come back ! ” 

And taking the infant in her arms, and seating herself 
at a little distance, she rocked it to and fro on her 
bosom, and prattled to it, and kissed it between every 
word, and laughed and wept by fits, as ever and anon 
she cast over her shoulder her playful, mirthful glance 
upon the father to whom those fading stars smiled sadly 
their last farewell. How beautiful she seemed as she 
thus sat, unconscious of the future! Still half a child 
herself, her child laughing to her laughter, — two soft 
triflers on the brink of the grave! Over her throat, as 
she bent, fell, like a golden cloud, her redundant hair; 
it covered her treasure like a veil of light, and the 
child’s little hands put it aside from time to time, to 
smile through the parted tresses, and then to cover its 
face and peep and smile again. It were cruel to damp 
that joy, more cruel still to share it. 


ZANONI. 


527 


"Viola,” said Zanoni, at last, “dost thou remember 
that, seated by the cave on the moonlit beach, in our 
bridal isle, thou once didst ask me for this amulet? — 
the charm of a superstition long vanished from the 
world, with the creed to which it belonged. It is the 
last relic of my native land, and my mother, on her 
deathbed, placed it round my neck. I told thee then 
I would give it thee on that day when the laws of our 
being should become the same.^’ 

“ I remember it well.” 

“ To-morrow it shall be thine ! ” 

"Ah, that dear to-morrow!” And, gently laying 
down her child, — for it slept now, — she threw herself 
on his breast, and pointed to the dawn that began grayly 
to creep along the skies. 

There, in those hoiror-breathing walls, the day-star 
looked through the dismal bars upon those three beings, 
in whom were concentred whatever is most tender in 
human ties; whatever is most mysterious in the combi- 
nations of the human mind; the sleeping Innocence; 
the trustful Affection, that, contented with a touch, a 
breath, can foresee no sorrow; the weary Science that, 
traversing all the secrets of creation, comes at last to 
Death for their solution, and still clings, as it nears the 
threshold, to the breast of Love. Thus, within, the 
within ^ — a dungeon; without, the without ^ — stately 
with marts and halls, with palaces and temples: 
Kevenge and Terror, at their dark schemes and counter- 
schemes; to and fro, upon the tide of the shifting pas- 
sions, reeled the destinies of men and nations; and 
hard at hand that day-star, waning into space, looked 
with impartial eye on the church tower and the guillo- 
tine. Up springs the blithesome morn. In yon gardens 
the birds renew their familiar song. The fishes are 


528 


ZANONI. 


sporting through the freshening waters of the Seine, 
The gladness of divine nature, the roar and dissonance 
of mortal life, awake again: the trader unbars his 
windows *, the flower-girls troop gayly to their haunts ; 
busy feet are tramping to the daily drudgeries that 
revolutions which strike down kings and kaisars, leave 
the same Cain’s heritage to the boor; the wagons groan 
and reel to the mart; Tyranny, up betimes, holds its 
pallid levee', Conspiracy, that hath not slept, hears 
the clock, and whispers to its own heart, “ The hour 
draws near.” A group gather, eager-eyed, round the 
purlieus of the Convention Hall; to-day decides the 
sovereignty of France, — about the courts of the Tribunal 
their customary hum and stir. No matter what the 
hazard of the die, or who the ruler, this day eighty 
heads shall fall! 


And she slept so sweetly. Wearied out with joy, 
secure in the presence of the eyes regained, she had 
laughed and wept herself to sleep; and . still in that 
slumber there seemed a happy consciousness that the 
loved was by, — the lost was found. For she smiled 
and murmured to herself, and breathed his name often, 
and stretched out her arms, and sighed if they touched' 
him not. He gazed upon her as he stood apart, — with 
what emotions it were vain to say. She would wake no 
more to him; she could not know how dearly the 
safety of that sleep was purchased. That morrow she 
had so yearned for, — it had come at last. How would 
she greet the eve ? Amidst all the exquisite hopes with 
which love and youth contemplate the future, her eyes 
had closed. Those hopes still lent their iris-colors to 
her dreams. She would wake to live! To-morrow, and 
the Feign of Terror was no more; the prison gates 


ZANONI. 


529 


would be opened, — she would go forth, with their 
child, into that summer-world of light. And he ? — he 
turned, and his eye fell upon the child; it was broad 
awake, and that clear, serious, thoughtful look which it 
mostly wore, watched him with a solemn steadiness. 
He bent over and kissed its lips. 

“ Never more,” he murmured, 0 heritor of love and 
grief, — never more wilt thou see me in thy visions; 
never more will the light of those eyes be fed by celes- 
tial commune; never more can my soul guard from thy 
pillow the trouble and the disease. Not such as I 
would have vainly shaped it, must be thy lot. In 
common with thy race, it must be thine to suffer, to 
struggle, and to err. But mild be thy human trials, 
and strong be thy spirit to love and to believe ! And 
thus, as I gaze upon thee, — thus may my nature breathe 
into thine its last and most intense desire ; may my love 
for thy mother pass to thee, and in thy looks may she 
hear my spirit comfort and console her. Hark! they 
come! Yes! I await ye both beyond the grave! ” 

The door slowly opened; the jailer appeared, and 
through the aperture rushed, at the same instant, a ray 
of sunlight; it streamed over the fair, hushed face of 
the happy sleeper, — it played like a smile upon the lips 
of the child that, still, mute, and steadfast, watched 
the movements of its father. At that moment Viola 
muttered in her sleep, “ The day is come, — the gates 
are open! Give me thy hand; we will go forth ! To 
sea, to sea! How the sunshine plays upon the waters! 
— to home, beloved one, to home again! ” 

" Citizen, thine hour is come ! ” 

“Hist! she sleeps! A moment! There, it is done! 
thank Heaven! — and still she sleeps! ” He would not 
kiss, lest he should awaken her, but gently placed round 

34 


530 


ZANONI. 


her neck the amulet that would speak to her, hereafter, 
the farewell, — and promise, in that farewell, reunion! 
He is at the threshold, — he turns again, and again. 
The door closes! He is gone forever ! 

She woke at last, — she gazed round. "Zanoni, it 
is day!” No answer but the low wail of her child. 
Merciful Heaven! was it then all a dream? She 
tossed back the long tresses that must veil her sight; 
she felt the amulet on her bosom, — it was no dream ! 
‘‘ 0 God ! and he is gone ! ” She sprang to the door, 
she shrieked aloud. The jailer comes, My husband, 
my child’s father ? ” 

“ He is gone before thee , woman ! ” 

“ Whither ? Speak — speak ! ” 

" To the guillotine ! ” — and the black door closed 
again. 

It closed upon the senseless! As a lightning-flash, 
Zanoni’s words, his sadness, the true meaning of his 
mystic gift, the very sacrifice he made for her, all became 
distinct for a moment to her mind, — and then darkness 
swept on it like a storm, yet darkness which had its 
light. And while she sat there, mute, rigid, voiceless, 
as congealed to stone, a vision, like a wind, glided 
over the deeps within, — the grim court, the judge, the 
jury, the accuser; and amidst the victims the one daunt- 
less and radiant form. 

“ Thou knowest the danger to the State, — confess! ” 

“I know; and I keep my promise. Judge, I reveal 
thy doom! I know that the Anarchy thou callest a 
State expires with the setting of this sun. Hark, to 
the tramp without; hark to the roar of voices! 
Koom there , ye dead ! — room in hell for Robespierre 
and his crew ! ” 

They, hurry into the court, — the hasty and pale mes- 


ZANONI. 


531 


sengers; there is confusion and fear and dismay!; 
“ Off with the conspirator, and to-morrow the woman 
thou wouldst have saved shall die I ” 

“ To-morrow, president, the steel falls on thee! 

On, through the crowded and roaring streets, on 
moves the Procession of Death. Ha, brave people! 
thou art aroused at last. They shall not die! Death 
is dethroned I — Robespierre has fallen ! — they rush to 
the rescue! Hideous in the tumbril, by the side of 
Zanoni, raved and gesticulated that form which, in his 
prophetic dreams, he had seen his companion at the place 
of death. “ Save us ! — save us ! ” howled the atheist 
Nicot. “On, brave populace! we shall be saved!” 
And through the crowd, her dark hair streaming wild, 
her eyes flashing fire, pressed a female form, “ My 
Clarence! ” she shrieked, in the soft Southern language 
native to the ears of Viola; “butcher! what hast thou 
done with Clarence ? ” Her eyes roved over the eager 
faces of the prisoners; she saw not the one she sought. 
“ Thank Heaven I — thank Heaven ! I am not thy 
murderess ! ” 

Nearer and nearer press the populace, — another 
moment, and the deathsman is defrauded. 0 Zanoni ! 
why still upon thy brow the resignation that speaks no 
hope % Tramp ! tramp ! through the streets dash the 
armed troop; faithful to his orders. Black Henriot leads 
them on. Tramp! tramp! over the craven and scattered 
crowd ! Here, flying in disorder, — there, trampled in 
the mire, the shrieking rescuers ! And amidst them, 
stricken by the sabres of the guard, her long hair blood- 
bedabbled, lies the Italian woman; and still upon her 
writhing lips sits joy, as they murmur, “ Clarence ! I 
have not destroyed thee ! ” 

On to the Barriere du Trone, It frowns dark in the 


532 


ZANONI. 


air, — the giant instrument of murder ! One after one 
to the glaive y — another and another and another ! 
Mercy ! O mercy ! Is the bridge between the sun and 
the shades so brief, — brief as a sigh? There, there, 

— his turn has come. “Die not yet; leave me not 
behind; hear me — hear me ! shrieked the inspired 
sleeper. “ What ! and thou smilest still ! ” They 
smiled, — those pale lips, — and tvilA the smile, the 
place of doom, the headsman, the horror vanished. 
With that smile, all space seemed suffused in eternal 
sunshine. Up from the earth he rose; he hovered 
over her, — a thing not of matter, an idea of joy and 
light ! Behind, Heaven opened, deep after deep ; and 
the Hosts of Beauty were seen, rank upon rank, afar; 
and “ Welcome ! ” in a myriad melodies, broke from 
your choral multitude, ye People of the Skies, — “ wel- 
come ! 0 purified by sacrifice, and immortal only 
through the grave, — this it is to die.” And radiant 
amidst the radiant, the Image stretched forth its arms, 
and murmured to the sleeper: “ Companion of Eternity ! 

— lAis it is to die ! ” 


“ Ho ! wherefore do they make us signs from the 
house-tops ? Wherefore gather the crowds through the 
street ? Why sounds the bell ? Why shrieks the 
tocsin ? Hark to the guns ! — the armed clash ! 
Fellow-captives, is there hope for us at last? ” 

So gasp out the prisoners, each to each. Day wanes, 
— evening closes ; still they press their white faces to 
the bars, and still from window and from house-top 
they see the smiles of friends, — the waving signals ! 
“ Hurrah ! ” at last, — “ Hurrah! Bobespierre is fallen! 
The Keign of Terror is no more ! God hath permitted 
us to live! ” 


ZANONL 


633 


Yes; cast thine eyes into the hall where the tyrant 
and his conclave hearkened to the roar without! Ful- 
filling the prophecy of Dumas, Henriot, drunk with 
blood and alcohol, reels within, and chucks his gory 
sabre on the floor. “ All is lost! ” 

“ Wretch! thy cowardice hath destroyed us! ” yelled 
the fierce Coffinhal, as he hurled the coward from the 
window. 

Calm as despair stands the stern St. Just; the palsied 
Couthon crawls, grovelling, beneath the table; a shot, 
— an explosion! Eobespierre would destroy himself! 
The trembling hand has mangled, and failed to kill! 
The clock of the Hotel de Ville strikes the third hour. 
Through the battered door, along the gloomy passages, 
into the Death -hall, burst the crowd. Mangled, livid, 
blood-stained, speechless but not unconscious, sits 
haughty yet, in his seat erect, the Master-Murderer! 
Around him they throng; they hoot, — they execrate, 
their faces gleaming in the tossing torches! He, and 
not the starry Magian, the real Sorcerer! And round 
his last hours gather the Fiends he raised ! 

They drag him forth! Open thy gates, inexorable 
prison! The Conciergerie receives its prey! Never a 
word again on earth spoke Maximilien Eobespierre! 
Pour forth thy thousands, and tens of thousands, eman- 
cipated Paris ! To the Place de la Revolution rolls the 
tumbril of the King of Terror, — St. Just, Dumas, 
Couthon, his companions to the grave! A woman — a 
childless woman, with hoary hair — springs to his side, 
" Thy death makes me drunk with joy! ” He opened 
his bloodshot eyes, — “ Descend to hell with the curses 
of wives and mothers! ” 

The headsmen wrench the rag from the shattered jaw; 
a shriek, and the crowd laugh, and the axe descends 


534 


ZANONI. 


amidst the shout of the countless thousands, and 
blackness rushes on thy soul, Maximilien Eobespierre! 
So ended the Keign of Terror. 

Daylight in the prison. From cell to cell they 
hurry with the news, — crowd upon crowd; the joyous 
captives mingled with the very jailers, who, for fear, 
would fain seem joyous too; they stream through the 
dens and alleys of the grim house they will shortly 
leave. They hurst into a cell, forgotten since the pre- 
vious morning. They found there a young female, sit- 
ting upon her wretched bed; her arms crossed upon 
her bosom, her face raised upward; the eyes unclosed, 
and a smile of more than serenity — of bliss — upon her 
lips. Even in the riot of their joy, they drew back in 
astonishment and awe. Never had they seen life so 
beautiful ; and as they crept nearer, and with noiseless 
feet, they saw that the lips breathed not, that the repose 
was of marble, that the beauty and the ecstacy were of 
death. They gathered round in silence; and lo! at her 
feet there was a young infant, who, wakened by tlieir 
tread, looked at them steadfastly, and with its rosy fin- 
gers played with its dead mother’s robe. An orphan 
there in a dungeon vault! 

“ Poor one! ” said a female (herself a parent), “and 
they say the father fell yesterday; and now the mother! 
Alone in the world, what can be its fate ? ” 

The infant smiled fearlessly on the crowd, as the 
woman spoke thus. And the old priest, who stood 
amongst them, said gently, “Woman, see! the orphan 
smiles! The Fatherless are the care of Goh!" 


NOTE. 


The curiosity which Zanoni has excited among those who think it 
worth while to dive into the subtler meanings they believe it in- 
tended to convey, may excuse me in adding a few words, not in 
explanation of its mysteries, but upon the principles which permit 
them. Zanoni is not, as some have supposed, an allegory ; but 
beneath the narrative it relates, typical meanings are concealed. 
It is to be regarded in two characters, distinct yet harmonious,— 
1st, that of the simple and objective fiction, in which (once grant- 
ing the'license of the author to select a subject which is, or appears 
to be, preternatural) the reader judges the writer by the usual 
canons, — namely, by the consistency of his characters under such 
admitted circumstances, the interest of his story, and the coherence 
of his plot ; of the work regarded in this view, it is not my inten- 
tion to say anything, whether in exposition of the design, or in 
defence of the execution. No typical meanings (which, in plain 
terms, are but moral suggestions, more or less numerous, more or 
less subtle) can afford just excuse to a writer of fiction, for the 
errors he should avoid in the most ordinary novel. We have no 
right to expect the most ingenious reader to search for the inner 
meaning, if the obvious course of the narrative be tedious and dis- 
pleasing It is, on the contrary, in proportion as we are satisfied 
with the objective sense of a work of imagination, that we are in- 
clined to search into its depths for the more secret intentions of 
the author. Were we not so divinely charmed with “Faust,” and 
“ Hamlet,” and “ Prometheus,” so ardently carried on by the interest 
of the story told to the common understanding, we should trouble 
ourselves little with the types in each which all of us can detect, — 
none of us can elucidate; none elucidate, for the essence of type 
is mystery We behold the figure, we cannot lift the veil. The 
author himself is not called upon to explain what he designed. 
An allegory is a personation of distinct and definite things, — vir- 


536 


NOTES. 


tues or qualities, — and the key can be given easily; but a writer 
who conveys typical meanings, may express them in myriads. He 
cannot disentangle all the hues which commingle into the light he 
seeks to cast upon truth ; and therefore the great masters of this 
enchanted soil, — Fairyland of Fairyland, Poetry imbedded be- 
neath Poetry, — wisely leave to each mind to guess at such truths 
as best please or instruct it. To have asked Goethe to explain tlie 
“ Faust ” would have entailed as complex and puzzling an answer as 
to have asked Mephistopheles to explain what is beneath the earth 
yve tread on. The stores beneath may differ for every passenger ; 
each step may require a new description ; and what is treasure to 
the geologist may be rubbish to the miner. Six worlds may lie 
under a sod, but to the common eye they are but six layers of 
stone. 

Art in itself, if not necessarily typical, is essentially a suggester 
of something subtler than that which it embodies to the sense. 
What Pliny tells us of a great painter of old, is true of most great 
painters ; “ their works express something beyond the works,” — 
“ more felt than understood.” This belongs to the concentration 
of intellect which high art demands, and which, of all the arts, 
sculpture best illustrates. Take Thorwaldsen’s Statue of Mercury, 
— it is but a single figure, yet it tells to those conversant with 
mythology a whole legend. The god has removed the pipe from 
his lips, because he has already lulled to sleep the Argus, whom 
you do not see. He is pressing his heel against his sword, because 
the moment is come when he may slay his victim. Apply the 
principle of this noble concentration of art to the moral writer : 
he, too, gives to your eye but a single figure ; yet each attitude, 
each expression, may refer to events and truths you must have the 
learning to remember, the acuteness to penetrate, or the imagina- 
tion to conjecture. But to a classical judge of sculpture, would 
not the exquisite pleasure of discovering the all not told in Thor- 
waldsen’s masterpiece be destroyed if the artist had engraved in 
detail his meaning at the base of the statue 'I Is it not the same 
with the typical sense which the artist in words conveys ? The 
pleasure of divining art in each is the noble exercise of all by whom 
art is worthily regarded. 

We of the humbler race not unreasonably shelter ourselves under 
the authority of the masters, on whom the world’s judgment is 
pronounced ; and great names are cited, not with the arrogance of 
equals, but with the humility of inferiors. 


NOTES. 


537 


The author of Zanoni gives, then, no key to mysteries, be they 
trivial or important, which may be found in the secret chambers 
by those who lift the tapestry from the wall; but out of the many 
solutions of the main enigma — if enigma, indeed, there be — which 
have been sent to him, he ventures to select the one which he sub- 
joins, from the ingenuity and thought which it displays, and from 
respect for the distinguished writer (one of the most eminent our 
time has produced) who deemed him worthy of an honor he is 
proud to display He leaves it to the reader to agree with, or 
dissent from the explanation. “A hundred men,’" says the old 
Platonist, “ may read the book by the help of the same lamp, yet 
all may differ on the text , for the lamp only lights the characters, 
the mind must divine the meaning’’ The object of a parable is 
not that of a problem ; it does not seek to convince, but to sug- 
gest. It takes the thought below the surface of the understanding 
to the deeper intelligence which the world rarely tasks. It is not 
sunlight on the water ; it is a hymn chanted to the nymph who 
hearkens and awakes below. 


“ ZANONI EXPLAINED. 

BY 

Mejnour — Contemplation of the Actual, — Science Always old, 
and must last as long as the Actual. Less fallible than Ideal- 
ism, but less practically potent, from its ignorance of the human 
heart. 

Zanoni — Contemplation of the Ideal, — Idealism. Always neces- 
sarily sympathetic: lives by enjoyment; and is therefore typified 
by eternal youth. ^ Idealism is the potent Interpreter and 

1 “ I do not understand the making Idealism less undying ( on this scene of 
existence) than Science.” — Commentator. 

Because, granting the above premises, Idealism is more subjected than Science 
to the Affectionsv or to Instinct, because the Affections, sooner or later, force 
Idealism into the Actual, and in the Actual its immortality departs. The only 
absolutely Actual portion of the work is found in the concluding scenes that 
depict the Reign of Terror. The introduction of this part was objected to by 


538 


NOTES. 


Prophet of the Real ; hut its powers are impaired in proportion 
to their exposure to human passion. 

Viola — Human Instinct. ( Hardly worthy to be called Love, as 
Love would not forsake its object at the bidding of Supersti- 
tion. ) Resorts, first in its aspiration after the Ideal, to tinsel 
shows ; then relinquishes these for a higher love ; but is still, 
from the conditions of its nature, inadequate to this, and liable 
to suspicion and mistrust. Its greatest force (Maternal Instinct) 
has power to penetrate some secrets, to trace some movements 
of the Ideal, but, too feeble to command them, yields to Super- 
stition , sees sin where there is none, while committing sin, 
under a false guidance ; weakly seeking refuge amid.st the very 
tumults of the warring passions of the Actual, while deserting 
the serene Ideal, — pining, nevertheless, in the absence of the 
Ideal, and expiring (not perishing, but .becoming transmuted) 
in the aspiration after having the laws of the two natures 
reconciled. 

( It might best suit popular apprehension to call these three 
the Understanding, the Imagination, and the Heart. ) 

Child — New-born Instinct, while trained and informed by Ideal- 
ism, promises a preter-humau result by its early, incommunicable 
vigilance and intelligence, but is compelled, by inevitable orphan- 
hood, and the one-half of the laws of its existence, to lapse into 
ordinary conditions. 

Aidon-Ai — Faith, which manifests its splendor, and delivers its 
oracles, and imparts its marvels, only to the higher moods of 
the soul, and whose directed antagonism is with Fear ; so that 
those who employ the resources of Fear must dispense with 
those of Faith. Yet aspiration holds open a way of restoration, 
and may summon Faith, even when the cry issues from beneath 
the yoke of Fear. 

Dweller of the Threshold — Fear (or Horror), from whose 
ghastliness men are protected by the opacity of the region of 
Prescription and Custom. The moment this protection is relin 
quished, and the human spirit pierces the cloud, and enters alone 
on the unexplored regions of Nature, this Natural Horror haunts 

some as out of keeping with the fanciful portions that preceded it, But If the 
writer of the solution has rightly shown or suggested the intention of the author, 
the most strongly and rudely actual scene of the age in which the story is cast 
was the necessary and harmonious completion of the whole. The excesses and 
•rimes of Humanity are the grave of the Ideal. — Author. 


NOTES. 


539 


it, and is to be successfully encountered only by defiance, — by 
aspiration towards, and reliance on, the Former and Director of 
Nature, whose Messenger and Instrument of reassurance is 
Faith. 

Mervale — Conventionalism. 

Nicot — Base, grovelling, malignant Passion. 

Glyndon — Unsustained Aspiration: Would follow Instinct, but 
is deterred by Conventionalism, is overawed by Idealism, yet 
attracted, and transiently inspired, but has not steadiness for 
the initiatory contemplation of the Actual. He conjoins its 
snatched privileges with a besetting sensualism, and suffers at 
once from the horror of the one and the disgust of the other, 
involving the innocent in the fatal conflict of his spirit. When 
on the point of perishing, he is rescued by Idealism, and, unable 
to rise to that species of existence, is grateful to be replunged 
into the region of the Familiar, and takes up his rest henceforth 
in Custom. (Mirror of Young Manhood.) 


AEGUMENT. 

Human Existence subject to, and exempt from, ordinary condi- 
tions ( Sickness, Poverty, Ignorance, Death ). 

Science is ever striving to carrv the most gifted beyond ordinary 
conditions, — the result being as many victims, as efforts, and the 
striver being finally left a solitary, — for his object is unsuitable to 
the natures he has to deal with. 

The pursuit of the Ideal involves so much emotion as to render 
the Idealist vulnerable by human passion, however long and well 
guarded, still vulnerable, — liable, at last, to a union with Instinct. 
Passion obscures both Insight and Forecast. All effort to elevate 
Instinct to Idealism is abortive, the laws of their being not coin- 
ciding ( in the early stage of the existence of the one ). Instinct is 
either alarmed, and takes refuge in Superstition or Custom, or is 
left helpless to human charity, or given over to providential care. 

Idealism, stripped of insight and forecast, loses its serenity, 
becomes subject once more to the horror from which it had 
escaped, and by accepting its aids, forfeits the higher help of 


ir 


540 


NOTES. 


Faith } aspiration, however, remaining still possible, and, thereby, 
slow restoration ; and also, something better. 

Summoned by aspiration, E’aith extorts from Fear itself the 
saving truth to which Science continues blind, and which Idealism 
itself hails as its crowning acquisition, — the inestimable Proof 
wrought out by all labors and all conflicts. 

Pending the elaboration of this proof. 

Conventionalism plods on, safe and complacent; 

Selfish Passion perishes, grovelling and hopeless ; 

Instinct sleeps, in order to a loftier waking; and 
Idealism learns, as its ultimate lesson, that self-sacrifice is true 
redemption ; that the region beyond the grave is the fitting 
one for exemption from mortal conditions ; and that Death 
is the everlasting portal, indicated by the finger of God, — 
the broad avenue through which man does not issue solitary 
and stealthy into the region of Free Existence, but enters 
triumphant, hailed by a hierarchy of immortal natures. 

The result is (in other words), ^hat the Universal Human 
Lot is, after all, that of the highest privilege^ 


ZICCI. 


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BOOK I. 

CHAPTER I. 

In the gardens at Naples, one summer evening in the 
last century, some four or five gentlemen were seated 
under a tree, drinking their sherbet, and listening, in 
the intervals of conversation, to the music which 
enlivened that gay and favorite resort of an indolent 
population. One of this little party was a young Eng- 
lishman, who had been the life of the whole group, but 
who, for the last few moments, had sunk into a gloomy 
and abstracted revery. One of his countrymen observed 
this sudden gloom, and tapping him on the back, said, 
“ Glyndon, why, what ails you, are you ill ? You have 
grown quite pale — • you tremble — is it a sudden chill ? 
You had better go home; these Italian nights are often 
dangerous to our English constitutions.” 

“ No, I am well now; it was but a passing shudder; 
I cannot account for it myself.” 

A man apparently of about thirty years of age, and of 
a mien and countenance strikingly superior to those 
around him, turned abruptly, and looked steadfastly at 
Glyndon. 


644 


ZICCI. 


“ I think I understand what you mean,” said he ; 
"and perhaps,” he added, with a grave smile, " I could 
explain it better flian yourself.” Here, turning to the 
others, he added, “You must often have felt, gentle- 
men, — each and all of you, — especially when sitting 
alone at night, a strange and unaccountable sensation of 
coldness and awe creep over you: your blood curdles, 
and the heart stands still ; the limbs shiver, the hair 
bristles; you are afraid to look up, to turn your eyes 
to the darker corners of the room; you have a horrible 
fancy that something unearthly is at hand; presently 
the whole spell, if I may so call it, passes away, and 
you are ready to laugh at your own weakness. Have 
you not often felt what I have thus imperfectly 
described? If so, you can understand what our young 
friend has just experienced, even amidst the delights of 
this magical scene, and amidst the balmy whispers of a 
July night.” 

“ Sir,” replied Glyndon, evidently much surprised, 
" you have defined exactly the nature of that shudder 
which came over me. But how could my manner be so 
faithful an index to my impressions ? ” 

“I know the signs of the visitation,” returned the 
stranger, gravely; “ they are not to be mistaken by one 
of my experience.” 

“ All the gentlemen present then declared that they 
could comprehend, and had felt, what the stranger had 
described. 

“ According to one of our national superstitions,” 
said Merton, the Englishman who had first addressed 
Glyndon , " the moment you so feel your blood creep, 
and your hair stand on end, some one is walking over 
the spot which shall be your grave.” 

" There are in all lands different superstitions to 


ZICCI, 


545 


uccount for so common an occurrence,” replied the 
stranger; ‘‘one sect among the Arabians hold that at 
that instant God is deciding the hour either of your 
death or that of some one dear to you. The African 
savage, whose imagination is darkened by the hideous 
rites of his gloomy idolatry, believes that the Evil 
Spirit is pulling you toward him by the hair, — so do 
the Grotesque and the Terrible mingle with each 
other.” 

“ It is evidently a mere physical accident, — a derange- 
ment of the stomach, a chill of the blood,*^ said a young 
Neapolitan. 

“ Then why is it always coupled in all nations with 
some superstitious presentiment or terror, — • some con- 
nection between the material frame and the supposed 
world without us? ” asked the stranger. “ For my part, 
I think — ” 

“What do you think, sir?” asked Glyndon, 
curiously. 

“ I think,” continued the stranger, “ that it is the 
repugnance and horror of that which is human about us, 
— to something, indeed, invisible, but antipathetic to 
our own nature ; and from a knowledge of which we are 
happily secured by the imperfection of our senses.” 

“ You are a believer in spirits, then? ” asked Merton, 
with an incredulous smile. 

“ Nay, I said not so; I can form no notion of a spirit, 
as the metaphysicians do, and certainly no fear of one ; 
but there may be forms of matter as invisible and impal- 
pable to us as the animalculse to which I have compared 
them. The monster that lives and dies in a drop of 
water, — carnivorous, insatiable, subsisting on the crea- 
tures minuter than himself, — is not less deadly in his 
wrath, less ferocious in his nature, than the tiger of the 

35 


546 


ZICCL 


desert. There may be things around us malignant and 
hostile to men, if Providence had not placed a wall 
between them and us, merely by different modifications 
of matter.” 

“ And could that wall never be removed ? ” asked 
young Glyndon, abruptly. “ Are the traditions of 
sorcerer and wizard, universal and immemorial as they 
are, merely fables ? ” 

“ Perhaps yes ; perhaps no, ” answered the stranger, 
indifterently. “ But who, in an age in which the 
reason has cffosen its proper bounds, would be mad 
enough to break the partition that divides him froni the 
boa and the lion, to repine at and rebel against the law 
of nature, which confines the shark to the great deep? 
Enough of these idle speculations.” 

Here the stranger rose, summoned the attendant, paid 
for his sherbet, and, bowing slightly to the company, 
soon disappeared among the trees. 

“Who is that gentleman? ” asked Glyndon, eagerly. 

The rest looked a,t each other, without replying, for 
some moments. 

“ I never saw him before,” said Merton, at last. 

“Horl.” 

“Nor I.” 

“I have met him often,” said the Neapolitan, who 
was named Count Cetoxa; “ it was, if you remember, as 
my companion that he joined you, He has been some 
months at Naples; he is very rich, — indeed, enormously 
so. Our acquaintance commenced in a strange way.” 

“ How was it ? ” 

“ I had been playing at a public gaming-house, and 
had lost considerably. I rose from the table, resolved 
no longer to tempt Fortune, when this gentleman, who 
had hitherto been a spectator, laying his hand on my 


ZICCI. 


547 


arm, said, with politeness, ‘ Sir, I see you enjoy play, 
— I dislike it; but I yet wish to have some interest in 
what is going on. Will you play this sum for me ? The 
risk is mine, — the half-profits yours.’ I was startled, 
as you may suppose , at such an address ; hut the stran- 
ger had an air and tone with him it was impossible to 
resist; besides, I was burning to recover my losses, and 
should not have risen had I any money left about me. 
I told him I would accept his offer, provided we shared 
the risk as well as profits. ‘ As you will,’ said he, 
smiling; ‘we need have no scruple, for you will be sure 
to win.’ I sat down; the stranger stood behind me: 
my luck rose; I invariably won. In fact, I rose from 
the table a rich man.” 

“There can be no foul play at the public tables, 
especially when foul play would make against the 
bank. ” 

“ Certainly not,” replied the Count. “ But our good 
fortune was indeed marvellous, so extraordinary, that a 
Sicilian (the Sicilians are all ill-bred, bad-tempered 
fellows) grew angry and insolent. ‘ Sir,’ said he 
turning to my new friend, ‘ you have no business to 
stand so near to the table. I do not understand this; 
you have not acted fairly. ’ The spectator replied with 
great composure, that he had done nothing against the 
rules, that he was very sorry that one man could not win 
without another man losing, and that he could not act 
unfairly even if disposed to do so. The Sicilian took 
the stranger’s mildness for apprehension, blustered 
more loudly, and at length fairly challenged him. ‘ I 
never seek a quarrel, and I never shun a danger,’ 
returned my partner; and six or seven of us adjourned 
to the garden behind the house. I was, of course, my 
partner’s second. He took me aside. ‘ This man will 


548 


ZIGCI. 


die,’ said he; ‘ see that he is buried privately in the 
church of St. Januario, by the side of his father.’ 

“ ‘ Did you know his family ? ’ I asked with great sur- 
prise. He made no answer, but drew his sword, and 
walked deliberately to the spot we had selected. The 
Sicilian was a renowned swordsman; nevertheless, in 
the third pass he was run through the body. I went 
up to him; he could scarcely speak. ‘ Have you any 
request to make, — any affairs to settle?’ He shook 
his head. ‘ Where would you wish to be interred ? ’ 
He pointed toward the Sicilian coast. ‘ What! ’ said 
I, in surprise, not by the side of your father? ’ As I 
spoke his face altered terribly; he uttered a piercing 
shriek; the blood gushed from his mouth, and he fell 
dead. The most strange part of the story is to come. 
We buried him in the church of St. Januario. In 
doing so, we took up his father’s coffin; the lid came 
off in moving it, and the skeleton was visible. In the 
hollow of the skull we found a very slender wire of 
sharp steel; this caused great surprise and inquiry. 
The father, who was rich and a miser, had died sud- 
denly, and been buried in haste, owing, it was said, to 
the heat of the weather. Suspicion once awakened, the 
examination became minute. The old man’s servant 
was questioned, and at last confessed that the son had 
murdered the sire; the contrivance was ingenious; the 
wire was so slender, that it pierced to the brain, and 
drew but one drop of blood, which the gray hairs 
concealed. The accomplice was executed.” 

“ And this stranger, — did he give evidence ? Did he 
account for — ” 

“ No,” interrupted the Count; ‘‘he declared that he 
had by accident visited the church that morning; that 
he had observed the tombstone of the Count Salvolio; 


ZICCI. 


o4y 

that his guide had told him the Count’s son was in 
Naples, — a spendthrift and a gambler. While we were 
at play, he had heard the Count mentioned by name at 
the table ; and when the challenge was given and 
accepted, it had occurred to him to name the place of 
burial , by an instinct he could not account for. ” 

“A very lame story,” said Merton. 

“Yes! but we Italians are superstitious; the alleged 
instinct was regarded as the whisper of Providence, — ■ 
the stranger became an object of universal interest and 
curiosity. His wealth, his manner of living, his 
extraordinary personal beauty, have assisted also to 
make him the rage. ” 

“ What is his name ? ” asked Glyndon. 

“ Zicci. Signor Zicci.” 

“ Is it not an Italian name ? He speaks English like 
a native. ” 

“ So he does Erench and German , as well as Italian to 
my knowledge. But he declares himself a Corsican by 
birth, though I cannot hear of any eminent Corsican 
family of that name. However, what matters his birth 
or parentage; he is rich, generous, and the best swords- 
man I ever saw in my life. Who would affront him ? ” 

“Not I, certainly,” said Merton, rising. “Come, 
Glyndon, shall we seek our hotel? It is almost day- 
light. Adieu, signor. ” 

“ What think you of this story ? ” said Glyndon , as 
the young men walked homeward. 

“Why, it is very clear that this Zicci is some 
impostor, — some clever rogue; and the Neapolitan 
shares booty, and puffs him off with all the hackneyed 
charlatanism of the marvellous. An unknown adven- 
turer gets into society, by being made an object of awe 
and curiosity; he is devilish handsome, and the 


550 


ZICCI. 


women are quite content to receive him without anjr 
other recommendation than his own face and Cetoxa’s 
fables. ” 

“ I cannot agree with you. Cetoxa, though a gambler 
and a rake, is a nobleman of birth and high repute for 
courage and honor. Besides, this stranger, with his 
grand features and lofty air, — so calm, so unobtrusive, 
— has nothing in common with the forward garrulity of 
an impostor.” * 

“My dear Glyndon, pardon me; but you have not 
yet acquired any knowledge of the world : the stranger 
makes the best of a fine person, and his grand air is 
but a trick of the trade. But to change the subject; 
how gets on the love affair ? ” 

“ Oh, Isabel could not see me to-night. The old 
woman gave me a note of excuse.” 

“ You must not marry her; what would they all say 
at home ? ” 

“ Let us enjoy the present,” said Glyndon, with 
vivacity; “ we are young, rich, good-looking: let us not 
think of to-morrow.” 

“ Bravo, Glyndon ! Here we are at the hotel. Sleep 
sound, and don’t dream of Signor Zicci.” 


ZICCI. 


551 


CHAPTER II. 

Clarence Glyndon was a young man of small but 
independent fortune. He had, early in life, evinced 
considerable promise in the art of painting; 'and, rather 
from enthusiasm than the want of a profession, he had 
resolved to devote himself to a career which in England 
has been seldom entered upon by persons who can live 
on their own means. Without being a poet, Glyndon 
had also manifested a graceful faculty for verse, which had 
contributed to win his entry into society above his birth. 
Spoiled and flattered from his youth upward, his natural 
talents were in some measure relaxed by indolence, and 
that worldly and selfish habit of thought which frivolous 
companionship often engenders, and which is withering 
alike to stern virtue and high genius. The luxuriance 
of his fancy was unabated; but the affections which are the 
life of fancy had grown languid and inactive: his youth, 
his vanity, and a restless daring and thirst of adventure 
had from time to time involved him in dangers and 
dilemmas, out of which, of late, he had always extri- 
cated himself with the ingenious felicity of a clever head 
and cool heart. He had left England for Rome with 
the avowed purpose and sincere resolution of studying 
the divine masterpieces of art; but pleasure had soon 
allured him from ambition, and he quitted the gloomy 
palaces of Rome for the gay shores and animated revel- 
ries of Naples. Here he had fallen in love — deeply in 
love, as he said and thought — with a young person 
celebrated at Naples, Isabel di Pisani. She was the 


552 


ZICCI. 


only daughter of an Italian, by an English mother: the 
father had known better days; in his prosperity he had 
travelled, and won in England the affections of a lady 
of some fortune. He had been induced to speculate ; he 
lost his all ; he settled at Naples, and taught languages 
and music. His wife died when Isabel, christened from 
her mother, was ten years old. At sixteen she came 
out on the stage; two years afterwards her father 
departed this life, and Isabel was an orphan. 

Glyndon, a man of pleasure, and a regular attendant 
at the theatre, had remarked the young actress behind 
the scenes; he fell in love with her, and he told her so. 
The girl listened to him perhaps from vanity, perhaps 
from ambition, perhaps from coquetry ; she listened, and 
allowed but few stolen interviews, in which she per- 
mitted no favor to the Englishman , — it was one reason 
why he loved her so much. 

The day following that on which our story opens 
Glyndon was riding alone by the shores of the Neapolitan 
sea, on the other side of the Cavern of Pausilippo. It 
was past noon; the sun had lost its early fervor and a 
cool breeze sprang voluptuously from the sparkling sea. 
Bending over a fragment of stone near the roadside he 
perceived the form of a man; and when he approached 
he recognized Zicci. 

The Englishman saluted him courteously. “ Have 
you discovered some antique? ” said he, with a smile; 
“ they are as common as pebbles on this road. ” 

"No,” replied Zicci; "it was but one of those 
antiques that have their date, indeed, from the begin- 
ning of the world, but which nature eternally withers 
and renews.” So saying, he showed Glyndon a small 
herb, with a pale-blue flower, and then placed it carefully 
in his bosom. 


ZICCL 


553 


You are a herbalist ? ” 

«Iam.” 

“ It is, I am told, a study full of interest.” 

“ To those who understand it, doubtless. But,” 
continued Zicci, looking up with a slight and cold 
smile, “ why do you linger on your way to converse 
with me on matters in which you neither have knowl- 
edge nor desire to obtain it? I read your heart, young 
Englishman: your curiosity is excited; you wish to 
know me, and not this humble herb. Pass on; your 
desire never can be satisfied.” 

“You have not the politeness of your countrymen,” 
said Glyndon, somewhat discomposed. “ Suppose I 
were desirous to cultivate your acquaintance, why 
should you reject my advances? ” 

“I reject no man’s advances,” answered Zicci. “I 
must know them if they so desire; but me, in return, 
they can never comprehend. If you ask my acquaint- 
ance, it is yours.; but I would warn you to shun me.” 

“ And why are you then so dangerous ? ” 

“ Some have found me so : if I were to predict your 
fortune by the vain calculations of the astrologer, I 
should tell you in their despicable jargon that my planet 
sat darkly in your house of life. Cross me not if you 
can avoid it. I warn you now for the first time and 
last.” 

“ You despise the astrologers, yet you utter a jargon 
as mysterious as theirs. I neither gamble nor quarrel ; 
why then should I fear you ? ” 

“ As you will ; I have done. ” 

“ Let me speak frankly ; your conversation last night 
interested and amused me. ” 

“I know it; minds like yours are attracted by mys- 
tery.” Glyndon was piqued at those words, though in 


554 


ZICCI. 


the tone in which they were spoken there was no 
contempt. 

“ I see you do not consider ine worthy of your friend- 
ship; be it so. Good day.” Zicci coldly replied to the 
salutation; and, as the Englishman rode on, returned 
to his botanical employment.. 

The same night, Glyndon went, as usual, to the 
theatre. He was standing behind the scenes watching 
Isabel, who was on the stage in one of her most brilliant 
parts. The house resounded with applause. Glyndon 
was transported with a young man’s passion and a young 
man’s pride: “This glorious creature,” thought he, 
“ may yet be mine.” 

He felt, while thus wrapped in delicious revery, a 
slight touch upon his shoulder : he turned, and beheld: 
Zicci. “ You are in danger,” said the latter. “ Do not 
walk home to-night; or if you do, go not alone.” 

Before Glyndon recovered from his surprise, Zicci 
disappeared; and when the Englishman saw him again, 
he was in the box of one of the Neapolitan ministers, 
where Glyndon could not follow him. 

Isabel now left the stage, and Glyndon accosted her 
with impassioned gallantry. The actress was surpris- 
ingly beautiful: of fair complexion, and golden hair, 
her countenance was relieved from the tame and gentle 
loveliness which the Italians suppose to be the charac- 
teristics of English beauty, by the contrast of dark eyes 
and lashes, by a forehead of great height, to which the 
dark outline of the eyebrows gave something of majesty 
and command. In spite of the slightness of virgin 
youth, her proportions had the nobleness, blent with 
the delicacy, that belongs to the masterpieces of ancient 
sculpture; and there was a conscious pride in her step, 
and in the swanlike bend of her stately head, as she 


ZICCI. 


555 


turned with an evident impatience from the address of 
her lover. Taking aside an old woman, who was her 
constant and confidential attendant at the theatre, she 
said in an earnest whisper, — 

“ Oh, Gionetta! he is here again! I have seen him 
again ! — and again , he alone of the whole theatre with- 
holds from me his applause. He scarcely seems to 
notice me; his indifference mortifies me to the soul; I 
could weep for rage and sorrow. ” 

“Which is he, my darling?” said the old woman 
with fondness in her voice. “ He must be dull, — not 
worth thy thoughts.” ^ 

The actress drew Gionetta nearer to the stage, and 
pointed out to her a man in one of the nearer boxes, 
conspicuous amongst all else by the simplicity of his 
dress, and the extraordinary beauty of his features. 

“Not worth a thought, Gionetta! ” repeated Isabel, 
— “not worth a thought! Saw you ever one so noble, 
so godlike ? ” 

“ By the Holy Mother ! ” answered Gionetta, “ he is 
a proper man, and has the air of a prince.” 

The prompter summoned the Signora Pisani. “ Find 
out his name, Gionetta,” said she, sweeping on to the 
stage, and passing by Glyndon, who gazed at her with a 
look of sorrowful reproach. 

The scene on which the actress now entered was that 
of the final catastrophe, wherein all her remarkable 
powers of voice and art were pre-eminently called forth. 
The house hung on every word with breathless worship ; 
but the eyes of Isabel sought only those of one calm and 
unmoved spectator; she exerted herself as if inspired. 
The stranger listened, and observed her with an atten- 
tive gaze, but no approval escaped his lips; no emotion 
changed the expression of his cold and half-disdainful 


556 


ZICCI. 


aspect. Isabel, who was in the character of a jealous 
and abandoned mistress, never felt so acutely the part 
she played. Her tears were truthful ; her passion that 
of nature : it was almost too terrible to behold. She was 
borne from the stage exhausted -and insensible, amidst 
such a tempest of admiring rapture, as Continental audi- 
ences alone can raise. The crowd stood up, — handker- 
chiefs waved, garlands and flowers were thrown on the 
stage, men wiped their eyes, and women sobbed aloud. 

“By Heavens!” said a Neapolitan of great rank, 
•‘she has fired me beyond endurance. To-night, this 
very night, she shall be mine! You have arranged all, 
Mascari ? ” 

“ All, signor. And if this young Englishman should 
accompany her home ? ” 

“The presuming barbarian! At all events, let him 
bleed for his folly. I hear that she admits him to secret 
interviews. I will have no rival.” 

“ But an Englishman ! There is always a search after 
the bodies of the English.” 

“ Fool! is not the sea deep enough, or the earth secret 
enough, to hide one dead man? Our ruffians are silent 
as the grave itself; and I — who would dare to suspect, 

to arraign the Prince di ? See to it, — let him be 

watched, and the fitting occasion taken. I trust him 
to 3"ou: robbers murder him; — you understand: the 
country swarms with them ; — plunder and strip him. 
Take three men ; the rest shall be my escort. ” 

Mascari shrugged his shoulders, and bowed submis- 
sively. 

Meanwhile Glyndon besought Isabel, who recovered 
but slowly, to return home in his carriage.^ She had 

1 At that time in Naples, carriages were both cheaper to hire, 
and more necessary for strangers, than they are now. 


ZICCI. 


557 


done so once or twice before, though she had never 
permitted him to accompany her. This time she 
refused, and with some petulance. Glyndon, offended, 
was retiring sullenly, when Gionetta stopped him. 
“ Stay, signor,” said she, coaxingly; “the dear signora 
is not well; do not be angry with her; I will make 
her accept your offer. ” 

Glyndon stayed, and after a few moments spent in 
expostulation on the part of Gionetta and resistance on 
chat of Isabel, the offer was accepted: the actress, with 
A mixture of naivete and coquetry, gave her hand to 
her lover, who kissed it with delight. Gionetta and 
her charge entered the carriage, and Glyndon was left 
at the door of the theatre, to return home on foot. The 
mysterious warning of Zicci then suddenly occurred to 
him ; he had forgotten it in the interest of his lover’s 
quarrel with Isabel. He thought it now advisable to 
guard against danger foretold by lips so mysterious ; he 
looked round for some one he knew; the theatre was 
disgorging its crowds, who hustled and jostled and 
pressed upon him; but he recognized no familiar 'coun- 
tenances. While pausing irresolute he heard Merton’s 
voice calling on him, and, to his great relief, discovered 
his friend making his way through the throng. 

“ I have secured you a place in the Count Cetoxa’s 
carriage,” said he. “ Come along, he is waiting for us.” 

“ How kind in you ! how did you find me out ? ” 

“ I met Zicci in the passage. ‘Your friend is at the 
door of the theatre,’ said he; ‘do not let him go home 
alone to-night: the streets of Naples are not always 
safe.’ I immediately remembered that some of the 
Calabrian bravos had been busy within the city the 
last few weeks, and asked Cetoxa, who was with me, 
to accompany you.” 


558 


ZICCL 


Further explanation was forbidden, for they now 
joined the Count. As Glyndon entered the carriage 
and drew up the glass, he saw four men standing apart 
by the pavement, who seemed to eye him with 
attention. 

“ Cospetto ! ” cried one, — “ ecco Inglese ! ” Glyndon 
imperfectly heard the exclamation as the carriage drove 
on. He reached home in safety. 

“ Have you discovered who he is? ” asked the actress, 
as she was now alone in the carriage with Gionetta. 

“Yes, he is the celebrated Signor Zicci, about whom 
the Court has run mad. They say he is so rich! — oh, 
so much richer than any of the Inglese ! But a bird in 
the hand, my angel, is better than — ” 

“Cease,” interrupted the young actress. “Zicci: 
speak of the Englishman no more.” 

The carriage was now entering that more lonely and 
remote part of the city in which Isabel’s house was 
situated, when it suddenly stopped. 

Gionetta, in alarm, thrust her head out of window, 
and perceived by the pale light of the moon’ that the 
driver, torn from his seat, was already pinioned in the 
arms of two men ; the next moment the door was 
opened violently, and a tall figure, masked and. mantled, 
appeared. 

“ Fear not, fairest Pisani, ” said he, gently, “ no ill shall 
befall you. ” As he spoke, he wound his arms round the 
form of the fair actress, and endeavored to lift her from 
the carriage. But the Signora Pisani was not an ordinary 
person ; she had been before exposed to all the dangers to 
which the beauty of the low-born was subjected amongst 
a lawless and profligate nobility; she thrust back the 
assailant with a power that surprised him, and in the 
next moment the blade of a dagger gleamed before his 


zicci. 559 

eyes. “ Touch me, ” said she, drawing herself to the 
farther end of th^ carriage, “ and I strike ! ” 

The mask drew hack. 

“ By the body of Bacchus, a bold spirit ! ” said he, 
half laughing and half alarmed. “ Here, Luigi — i 
Giovanni ! disarm and seize her. Harm her not.” 

The mask retired from the door, and another and yet 
taller form presented itself. “ Be calm, Isabel di 
Pisani, ” said he, in a low voice ; “ with me you are 
indeed safe ! ” He lifted his mask as he spoke, and 
showed the noble features of Zicci. “Be calm, he 
hushed, — I can save you.” He vanished, leaving 
Isabel lost in surprise, agitation, and delight. There 
were in all nine masks: two were engaged with the 
driver; one stood at the head of the carriage horses; a 
third guarded the well-trained steeds of the party; three 
others, besides Zicci, and the one who had first accosted 
Isabel, stood apart by a carriage drawn to the side of the 
road. To these Zicci motioned: they advanced; he 
pointed toward the first mask, who was in fact the 

Prince di , and, to his unspeakable astonishment, 

the Prince was suddenly seized from behind. 

“ Treason ! ” he cried. “ Treason among my own men ! 
What means this ? ” 

“ Place him in his carriage ! If he resist, shoot him ! ” 
said Zicci, calmly. 

He approached the men who had detained the coachman. 

“ You are outnumbered and outwitted, ” said he: “join 
your lord; you are three men, — we six, armed to the 
teeth. Thank our mercy that we spare your lives; 
-go!” 

The men gave way, dismayed. The driver remounted. 

“ Cut the traces of their carriage and the bridles of 
their horses, ” said Zicci, as he entered the vehicle com 


560 


ZICCI. 


taining Isabel, and which now drove on rapidly, leaving 
the discomfited ravisher in a state of rage and stupor 
impossible to describe. 

“ Allow me to explain this mystery to you, ” said 
Zicci. “ I discovered the plot against you, — no matter 
how. I frustrated it thus : The head of this design is 
a nobleman who has long persecuted you in vain. He 
and two of his creatures watched you from the entrance 
of the theatre, having directed six others to await him 
on the spot where you were attacked ; myself and five of 
my servants supplied their place, and were mistaken for 
his own followers. I had previously ridden alone to the 
spot where the men were waiting and informed them 
that their master would not require their services that 
night. They believed me, — for I showed them his 
signet ring, — and accordingly dispersed. I then joined 
my own band, whom I had left in the rear; you know 
all. We are at your door.” 


ZICCI. 


56i 


CHAPTEE III. 

Zicci was left alone with the young Italian. She had 
thrown aside her cloak and head gear; her hair, some- 
what dishevelled, fell down her ivory neck, which the 
dress partially displayed; she seemed, as she sat in that 
low and humble chamber, a very vision of light and 
glory. 

Zicci gazed at her with an admiration mingled with 
compassion; he muttered a few words to himself and 
then addressed her aloud : — 

“ Isabel di Pisani, I have saved you from a great 
peril ; not from dishonor only, but, perhaps, from death. 

The Prince di , under the weak government of a 

royal child and a venal administration, is a man above 
the law. He is capable of every crime ; but amongst his 
passions he has such prudence as belongs to ambition ; if 
you were not to reconcile yourself to your shame you 
would never enter the world again to tell your tale. The 
ravisher has no heart for repentance, hut he has a hand 
that can murder. I have saved thee, Isabel di Pisani. 
Perhaps you would ask me wherefore ? ” Zicci paused 
and smiled mournfully, as he added, “ My life is not 
that of others, hut I am still human ; I know pity, and 
more, Isabel, I can feel gratitude for affection. You love 
me ; it was my fate to fascinate your eye, to arouse your 
vanity, to inflame your imagination. It was to warn you 
from this folly that I consented for a few minutes to 
become your guest. The Englishman, Glyndon, loves 
thee well, — better than I can ever love; he may wed 


562 


ZICCI. 


thee ; he may hear thee to his own free and happy land,-^ 
the land of thy mother’s kin. Forget me, teach thyself 
to return and to deserve his love; and I tell thee that 
thou wilt he honored and be happy.” 

Isabel listened with silent wonder and deep blushes to 
this strange address; and when the voice ceased, she 
covered her face with her hands and wept. 

Zicci rose : “ I have fulfilled my duty to you, and I 
depart. E-emember that you are still in danger from the 
Prince; be wary, and be cautious. Your best precau- 
tion is in flight : farewell. ” 

“ Oh, do not leave me yet ; you have read a secret of 
which I myself was scarcely conscious; you despise me, 
— you, my preserver ! Ah, do not misjudge me ; I am 
better, higher than I seem. Since I saw thee I have 
been a new being.” The poor girl clasped her hands 
passionately as she spoke, and her tears streamed down 
her cheeks. 

“ What would you that I should answer ? ” said Zicci, 
pausing, but with a cold severity in his eye. 

“ Say that you do not despise, — say that you do not 
think me light and shameless. ” 

“ Willingly, Isabel ; I know your heart and your his- 
tory; you are capable of great virtues; you have the 
seeds of a rare and powerful genius. You may pass 
through the brief period of your human life with a proud 
step and a cheerful heart, if you listen to my advice. 
You have been neglected from your childhood; you have 
been- thrown among nations at once frivolous and coarse; 
your nobler dispositions, your higher qualities, are not 
developed. You were pleased with the admiration of 
Glyndon; you thought that the passionate stranger 
might marry you, while others had only uttered the vows 
that dishonor. Poor child, it was the instinctive desire 


ZICCI. 


56a 


of right within thee that made thee listen to him ; and if 
my fatal shadow had not crossed thy path, thou wouldst 
have loved him well enough, at least for content. Eeturn 
to that hope, and nurse again that innocent affection; this 
is my answer to thee. Art thou contented ? ” 

“No! ah, no! severe as thou art, I love better to hear 
thee than — than — what am I saying? And now you 
have saved me, I shall pray for you, bless you, think of 
you; and am I never to see you more? Alas, the 
moment you leave me, danger and dread will darken 
round me. Let me he your servant, your slave; with 
you I should have no fear. ” 

A dark shade fell over Zicci’s brow ; he looked from 
the ground on which his eyes had rested while she spoke 
upon the earnest and imploring face of the beautiful 
creature that now knelt before him, with all the passions 
of an ardent and pure, but wholly untutored and half- 
savage nature, speaking from the tearful eyes and trem- 
bling lips. He looked at her with an aspect she could 
not interpret: in his eyes were kindness, sorrow, and 
even something, she thought, of love; yet the brow 
frowned, and the lip was stern. 

“ It is in vain that we struggle with our doom, ” said 
he, calmly ; “ listen to me yet. I am a man, Isabel, in 
whom there are some good impulses yet left, but whose' 
life is, on the whole, devoted to a systematic and selfish 
desire to enjoy whatever life can afford. To me it is 
given to warn: the warning neglected, I interfere no 
more; I leave her victories to that Fate that I cannot 
bafde of her prey. You do not understand me; no 
matter: what I am now about to say will be more easy 
to comprehend. I tell thee to tear from thy heart all 
thought of me ; thou hast yet the power. If thou wilt 
not obey me, thou must reap the seeds that thou wilt 


564 


ZICCI. 


sow. Glyndon, if thou acceptest his homage, will love 
thee throughout life ; I, too, can love thee. ” 

" You — you — ” 

“ But with a lukewarm and selfish love ; and one that 
cannot last. Thou wilt be a flower in my path: I 
inhale thy sweetness, and pass on, caring not what wind 
shall sup thee, or what step shall tread thee to the 
dust. Which is the love thou wouldst prefer ? ” 

“ But do you — can you love me! — you — you, Zicci, 
even for an hour? Say it again.” 

“Yes, Isabel; I am not dead to beauty; and yours is 
that rarely given to the daughters of men. Yes, Isabel, 
I could love thee. ” 

Isabel uttered a cry of joy, seized his hand, and kissed 
it through burning and impassioned tears. Zicci raised 
her in his arms, and imprinted one kiss upon her 
forehead. 

“Do not deceive thyself,” he said; “consider well. 
I tell thee again, that my love is subjected to the cer- 
tain curse of change. For my part, I shall seek thee no 
more. Thy fate shall be thine own and not mine. For 

the rest, fear not the Prince di . Xt present ^ I can 

save thee from every harm.” 

With these words he withdrew himself from her 
•embrace, and had gained the outer door just as Gionetta 
came from the kitchen with her hands full of such cheer 
as she had managed to collect together. Zicci laid his 
hand on the old woman’s arm. 

“Signor Glyndon,” said he, “loves Isabel; he may 
wed her. You love your mistress; plead for him. 
Disabuse her, if you can, of any caprice for me. I am 
a bird ever on the wing. ” 

He dropped a purse, heavy with gold, into Gionetta’s 
bosom, — and was gone. 


ZICCI. 


565 


CHAPTER IV. 

The palace of Zicci was among the noblest in Naples. 
It still stands, though ruined and dismantled, in one 
of those antique streets, from which the old races of the 
Norman and the Spaniard have long since vanished. 

He ascended the vast staircase, and entered the rooms 
reserved for his private hours. They were no wise 
remarkable except for their luxury and splendor, and the 
absence of what men, so learned as Zicci was reputed, 
generally prize, — namely, hooks. Zicci seemed to 
know everything that hooks can teach; yet, of hooks 
themselves he spoke and thought with the most pro- 
found contempt. 

He threw himself on a sofa, and dismissed his attend- 
ants for the night; and here it may he observed, that 
Zicci had no one servant who knew anything of his 
origin, birth, or history. Some of his attendants he 
had brought with him from other cities; the rest he had 
engaged at Naples. He hired those, only, whom wealth 
can make subservient. His expenditure was most 
lavish; his generosity, regal; but his orders were ever 
given as those of a general to his army. The least 
disobedience, the least hesitation, and the offender was 
at once dismissed.* He was a man who sought tools, 
and never made confidants. 

Zicci remained for a considerable time motionless 
and thoughtful. The hand of the clock before him 
pointed to the first hour of morning. The solemn voice 
of the timepiece aroused him from his revery : — 


566 


ZICCL 


** One sand more out of the mighty hour-glass,” said 
he, rising; “ one hour nearer to the last! I am weary 
of humanity. I will enter into one of the countless 
worlds around me.” He lifted the arras that clothed 
the walls, and touching a strong iron door (then made 
visible) with a minute key which he wore in a ring, 
passed into an inner apartment lighted by a single lamp 
of extraordinary lustre. The room was small; a few 
phials and some dried herbs were ranged in shelves on 
the wall, which was hung with snow-white cloth of 
coarse texture. From the shelves Zicci selected one of 
the phials, and poured the contents into a crystal cup. 
The liquid was colorless, and sparkled rapidly up in 
bubbles of light; it almost seemed to evaporate ere it 
reached his lips ; but -when the strange beverage was 
quaffed, a sudden change was visible in the countenance 
of Zicci : his beauty became yet more dazzling, his eyes 
shone with intense fire, and his form seemed to grow 
more youthful and ethereal. 


ZICCI. 


567 


CHAPTER V. 

The next day, Glyndon bent his steps toward Zicci’a 
palace. The young man’s imagination, naturally in- 
flammable, was singularly excited by the little he had 
seen and heard of this strange being; a spell, he could 
neither master nor account for, attracted him toward the 
stranger. Zicci’s power seemed mysterious and great; 
his motives kindly and benevolent, yet his manners 
chilling and repellant. Why at one moment reject 
Glyndon ’s acquaintance, at another save him from 
danger? How had Zicci thus acquired the knowledge of 
enemies unknown to Glyndon himself? His interest 
was deeply roused, his gratitude appealed to ; he resolved 
to make another effort to conciliate Zicci. 

The signor was at home, and Glyndon was admitted 
into a lofty saloon, where in a few moments Zicci joined 
him. 

“ I am come to thank you for your warning last 
night,” said he; “and to entreat you to complete my 
obligation by informing me of the quarter to which I 
may look for enmity and peril. ” 

“You are a gallant, Mr. Glyndon,” said Zicci, with 
a smile ; “ and do not know so little of the south as not 
to be aware that gallants have always rivals.” 

“Are you serious? ” said Glyndon, coloring. 

“ Most serious. You love Isabel di Pisani; you have 
for rival one of the most powerful and relentless of the 
Neapolitan princes. Your danger is indeed great.” 

“ But, pardon me, how came it known to you ? ” 


568 


ZICCI. 


“ I give no account of myself to mortal man,” replied 
Zicci , haughtily ; “ and to me it matters not whether 
you regard or scorn my warning. ” 

•‘Well, if I may not question you, be it so; but at 
least advise me what to do.” 

“ You will not follow my advice.” 

“ You wrong me! why? ” 

“ Because you are constitutionally brave ; you are 
fond of excitement and mystery ; you like to be the hero 
of a romance. I should advise you to leave Naples; 
and you will disdain to do so while Naples contains a foe 
to shun, or a mistress to pursue.” 

“You are right,” said the young Englishman, with 
energy ; “ and you cannot reproach me for such a 
resolution. ” 

“ No, there is another course left to you; do you love 
Isabel di Pisani truly and fervently ? If so, marry her, 
and take a bride to your native land. ” 

“Nay,” answered Glyndon, embarrassed; “Isabel is 
not of my rank; her character is strange and self- 
' illed; her education neglected. I am enslaved by her 
heauty, but I cannot wed her.” 

Zicci frowned. 

“ Your love then is but selfish lust, and by that love 
you will be betrayed. Young man, Destiny is less 
inexorable than it appears. The resources of the great 
Ruler of the Universe are not so scanty and so stern as 
to deny to men the divine privilege of Free Will; all 
of us can carve out our own way, and God can make our 
very contradictions harmonize with His solemn ends. 
You have before you an option. Honorable and gener- 
ous love may even now work out your happiness, and 
effect your escape ; a frantic and interested passion will 
but lead you to misery and doom.” 


ZICCI. 


569 


“ Do you pretend, then, to read the future ? ” 

“ I have said all that it pleases me to utter.” 

“ While you assume the moralist to me. Signor Zicci,” 
said Glyndon, Avith a smile, “if report says true, you 
do not yourself reject the allurements of unfettered 
love.” 

“ If it Avere necessary that practice square Avith precept, ” 
said Zicci, Avith a sneer, “ our pulpits Avould be empty. 
Do you think it matters, in the great aggregate of human 
destinies, Avhat one man’s conduct maybe? Nothing; 
not a grain of dust: hut it matters much Avhat are the 
sentiments he propagates. His acts are limited and 
momentary; his sentiments may pervade the universe, 
and inspire generations till the day of doom. All our 
virtues, all our laAvs, are draAvn from hooks and maxims, 
•which are sentiments, not from deeds. Our opinions, 
young Englishman, are the angel part of us ; our acts the 
earthly. ” 

“You have reflected deeply for an Italian,” said 
Glyndon. 

“ Who told you I was 'an Italian? ” 

“ Are you not of Corsica ? ” 

“ Tush, ” said Zicci, impatiently turning away. Then, 
after a pause, he resumed in a mild voice, “ Glyndon, 
do you renounce Isabel di Pisani ? Will you take three 
days to consider of what I have said ? ” 

“ Denounce her, — never! ” 

“ Then you Avill marry her ? ” 

“ Impossible. ” 

“Be it so: she will then renounce you. I tell you 
that you have rivals. ” 

“Yes: the Prince di ; hut I do not fear him.” 

“ You have another, whom you will fear more.” 

“ And who is he ? ” 


570 


ZICCI. 


‘^Myself.” 

Glyndon turned pale and started from his seat. 

“ You, Signor Zicci ! — you — and you dare to tell me 
so?” 

“Dare! Alas! you know there is nothing on earth 
left me to fear ! ” 

These words were not uttered arrogantly, hut in a tone 
of the most mournful dejection. Glyndon was enraged, 
confounded, and yet awed. However, he had a brave 
English heart within his breast, and he recovered himself 
quickly. 

“ Signor,” said he, calmly, “ I am not to be duped by 
these solemn phrases, and these mystical sympathies. 
You may have power which I cannot comprehend or 
emulate, or you may be but a keen impostor. ” 

“ Well, sir, your logical position is not ill-taken, — 
proceed. ” 

“ I mean then, ” continued Glyndon, resolutely, though 
somewhat disconcerted, “ I mean you to understand, that, 
though I am not to be persuaded or compelled by a 
stranger to marry Isabel di Pfeani, I am not the less 
determined never tamely to yield her to another.” 

Zicci looked gravely at the young man, whose spark- 
ling eyes and heightened color testified the spirit to 
support his words, and replied, “ So bold ! — well ; it 
becomes you. You have courage, then, — I thought it. 
Perhaps it may be put to a sharper test than you dream 
of. But take my advice : wait three days, and tell me 
then if you will marry this young person. ” 

“ But if you love her, why — why — ” 

“Why am I anxious that she should wed another: 
to save her from myself! Listen to me. That girl, 
humble and uneducated though she be, has in her the 
seeds of the most lofty qualities and virtues. She can 


ZICCI. 


571 


be all to the man she loves, — all that man can desire in 
wife or mistress. Her soul, developed by affection, will 
elevate your own; it will influence your fortunes, exalt 
your destiny ; you will become a great and prosperous man. 
If, on the contrary, she fall to me, I know not what may 
be her lot; hut I know that few can pass the ordeal, and 
hitherto no woman has survived the struggle. ” 

As Zicci spoke his face became livid, and there was 
something in his voice that froze the warm blood of his 
listener. 

“ What is this mystery which surrounds you ? ” ex- 
claimed Glyndon, unable to repress his emotion. “ Are 
you, in truth, different from other men? Have you 
^passed the boundary of lawful knowledge? Are you, as 
some declare, a sorcerer, only a — ” 

“ Hush ! ” interrupted Zicci, gently, and with a smile 
of singular but melancholy sweetness : “ have you earned 
the right to ask me these questions? The days of 
torture and persecution are over ; and a man may live as 
he pleases, and talk as it suits him, without fear of the 
stake and the rack. Since I can defy persecution, pardon 
me if I do not succumb to curiosity.” 

Glyndon blushed, and rose. In spite of his love for 
Isabel, and his natural terror of such a rival, he felt 
himself irresistibly drawn toward the very man he had 
most cause to suspect and dread. It was like the fasci- 
nation of the basilisk. He held out his hand to Zicci, 
saying, “ Well, then, if we are to be rivals, our swords 
must settle our rights: till then I would fain be friends.” 

“ Friends ! Pardon me : I like you too well to give 
you my friendship. You know not what you ask.” 

“ Enigmas again ! ” 

“Enigmas!” cried Zicci, passionately; “ay, can you 
dare to solve them ? Would you brave all that human 


572 


ZICCI. 


heart can conceive of peril and of horror, so that you at 
last might stand separated from this visible universe side 
by side with me ? When you can dare this, and when 
you are fit to dare it, I may give you my right hand, and 
call you friend. ” 

“ I could dare everything and all things for the at- 
tainment of superhuman wisdom,” said Glyndon; and 
his countenance was lighted up with wild and intense 
enthusiasm. 

Zicci observed him in thoughtful silence. 

“ He may be worthy, ” he muttered ; “ he may — 
yet — ” He broke off abruptly; then, speaking aloud, 
“ Go, Glyndon, ” said he : “ in three days we shall meet 
again.” 

“Where?” 

“ Perhaps where you can least anticipate. In any case, 
we shall meet. ” 


ZlCOl* 


573 


CHAPTEE VI. 

Glyndon thought seriously and deeply over all that the 
mysterious Zicci had said to him relative to Isabel. His 
imagination was inflamed by the vague and splendid 
promises that were connected with his marriage with the 
poor actress. His fears, too, were naturally aroused by 
the threat that by marriage alone could he save himself 
from the rivalry of Zicci, — Zicci, horn to dazzle and 
command ; Zicci, who united to the apparent wealth of a 
monarch the beauty of a god; Zicci, whose eye seemed to 
foresee, whose hand to frustrate, every danger. What a 
rival ! and what a foe ! 

But Glyndon’s pride, as well as jealousy, was aroused. 
He was brave comme son e'pee. Should he shrink from 
the power or the enmity of a man mortal as himself? 
And why should Zicci desire him to give his name and 
station to one of a calling so equivocal ? Might there not 
he motives he could not fathom ? Might not the actress 
and the Corsican he in league with each other ? Might 
not all this jargon of prophecy and menace he hut artifices 
to dupe him ? — the tool, perhaps, of a mountebank and 
his mistress! Mistress! ah, no. If ever maidenhood 
wrote its modest characters externally, that pure eye, 
that noble forehead, that mien and manner, so ingenuous 
even in their coquetry, their pride, assured him that 
Isabel was not the base and guilty thing he had dared for 
a moment to suspect her. Lost in a labyrinth of doubts 
and surmises, Glyndon turned on the practical sense of 
the sober Merton to assist and enlighten him. 


574 


ZICCI. 


As may be well supposed, his friend listened to bis 
account of his interview with Zicci with a half-suppressed 
and ironical smile. 

“ Excellent , my dear friend. This Zicci is another 
Apollonius of Tyana; nothing less will satisfy you. 
What! is it possible that you are the Clarence Glyndon 
of whose career such glowing hopes are entertained? 
You the man whose genius has been extolled by all the 
gray beards ? Not a boy turned out from a village school 
but would laugh you to scorn. And so because Signor 
Zicci tells you that you will be a marvellously great man 
if you revolt all your friends, and blight all your pros- 
pects, by marrying a Neapolitan actress, you begin already 
to think of — By J upiter ! I cannot talk patiently on tbei 
subject. Let the girl alone; that would be the proper 
plan ; or else — ” 

“You talk very sensibly,” interrupted Glyndon, “but 
you distract me. I will go to Isabel’s house : I will see 
her; I will judge for myself.” 

“ That is certainly the best way to forget her, ” said 
Merton. 

Glyndon seized his hat and sword, and was gone. 


ZICCI. 


575 


CHAPTER yil. 

She was seated outside her door, — the young actress. 
The sea, which in that heavenly bay literally seems to 
sleep in the arms of the shore, bounded the view in 
front; while to the right, not far off, rose the dark and 
tangled crags to which the traveller of to-day is daily 
brought to gaze on the tomb of Virgil, or compare with 
the Cavern of Pausilippo the archway of Highgate-hill. 
There were a few fishermen loitering by the cliffs, on 
which their nets were hung up to dry; and, at a dis- 
tance, the sound of some rustic pipe (more common at 
that day than in this) , mingled now and then with the 
bells of the lazy mules, broke the voluptuous silence, — 
the silence of declining noon on the shores of Naples. 
Never till you have enjoyed it, never till you have felt 
its enervating but delicious charm, believe that you can 
comprehend all the meaning of the dolce far niente ; — 
and when that luxury has been known, when you have 
breathed the atmosphere of faery land, then you will 
no longer wonder why the heart ripens with so sudden 
and wild a power beneath the rosy skies and amidst the 
glorious foliage of the south. 

The young actress was seated by the door of her house, 
overhead a rude canvas awning sheltered her from the 
sun ; on her lap lay the manuscript of a new part in 
which she was shortly to appear. By her side was the 
guitar on which she had been practising the airs that 
were to ravish the ears of the cognoscenti. But the 


576 


ZICCI. 


guitar had been thrown aside in despair; her voice 
this morning did not obey her will. The manuscript 
lay unheeded, and the eyes of the actress were fixed on 
the broad, blue deep beyond. In the unwonted neg- 
ligence of her dress might be traced the abstraction of 
her mind. Her beautiful hair was gathered up loosely, 
and partially bandaged by a kerchief, whose purple 
color seemed to deepen the golden hue of the tresses. 
A stray curl escaped, and fell down the graceful neck. 
A loose morning robe, girded by a sash, left the breeze 
that came ever and anon from the sea to die upon the 
bust half disclosed, and the tiny slipper, that Cinderella 
might have worn, seemed a world too wide for the tiny 
foot which it scarcely covered. It might be the heat of 
the day that deepened the soft bloom of the cheeks, and 
gave an unwonted languor to the large, dark eyes. In 
all the pomp of her stage attire, — in all the flush of 
excitement before the intoxicating lamps, — never had 
Isabel looked so lovely. 

By the side of the actress, and filling up the thresh- 
old, stood Gionetta, with her hands thrust up to the 
elbow in two huge recesses on either side her gown : 
pockets, indeed, they might be called by courtesy, — such 
pockets as Beelzebub’s grandmother might have shaped 
for herself, bottomless pits in miniature. 

“But I assure you,” said the nurse, in that sharp, 
quick, ear-splitting tone in which the old women of the 
south are more than a match for those of the north, — 
“ but I assure you, my darling, that there is not a finer 
cavalier in all Naples, nor a more beautiful, than this 
Inglese ; and I am told that all the Inglesi are much 
richer than they seem. Though they have no trees in 
their country, poor people, and instead of twenty -four 
they have only twelve hours to the day, yet I hear. 


ZICCI. 


577 


cospetto ! that they shoe their horses with scudi ; and 
since they cannot (the poor heretics!) turn grapes into 
wine, for they have no grapes, they turn gold into 
physic, and take a glass or two of pistoles whenever 
they are troubled with the colic. But you don’t hear 
me. Little pupil of my eyes, you don’t hear me! ” 

“ Gionetta, is he not god-like? ” 

Sancta Maria! he is handsome, bellissimo ; and 
when you are his wife, — for they say these English are 
never satisfied unless they marry — ” 

“ Wife ! — English ! — whom are you talking of ? ” 

“ Why, the young English signor, to be sure.” 

“ Chut! I thought you spoke of Zicci.” 

“Oh! Signor Zicci is very rich and very generous; 
but he wants to he your cavalier, not your husband. I 
see that, — leave me alone. When you are married, 
then you will see how amiable Signor Zicci will be. 
Oh, per fede^ but he will be as close to your husband as 
the yolk to the white, — that he will.” 

“Silence, Gionetta! How wretched I am to have 
no one else to speak to, — to advise me. Oh, beautiful 
sun ! ” and the girl pressed her hand to her heart with 
wild energy, “ why do you light every spot but this ? 
Dark — dark. And a little while ago I was so calm, 
so innocent, so gay. I did not hate you then, Gionetta, 
hateful as your talk was, — I hate you now. Go in; 
leave me alone, — leave me.” 

“ And indeed it is time I should leave you, for the 
polenta will be spoiled and you have eat nothing all 
day. If you don’t eat you will lose your beauty, my 
darling, and then nobody will care for you. Nobody 
cares for us when we grow ugly, — I know that, — and 
then you must, like old Gionetta, get some Isabel of 
your own to spoil. I ’ll go and see to XkiQ polenta,'^ 


578 


ZICCI. 


“ Since I have known this man,” said the actress, 
half aloud, “ since his dark eyes have fascinated me, I 
am no longer the same. I long to escape from myself, 
— to glide with the sunbeam over the hill-tops, to 
become something that is not of earth. Is it, indeed, 
that he is a sorcerer, as I have heard? Phantoms float 
before me at night, and a fluttering like the wing of a 
bird within my heart seems as if the spirit were terrifled, 
and would break its cage.” 

While murmuring these incoherent rhapsodies, a step 
that she did not hear approached the actress, and a light 
hand touched her arm. 

“Isabella! carissima ! Isabella!” 

She turned and saw Glyndon. The sight of his fair 
young face calmed her at once. She did not love him, 
yet his sight gave her pleasure. She had for him a 
kind and grateful feeling. Ah, if she had never beheld 
Zicci ! 

" Isabel,” said the Englishman, drawing her again to 
the bench from which she had risen, and seating him- 
self beside her. “ You know how passionately I love 
thee. Hitherto thou hast played with my impatience 
and my ardor; thou hast sometimes smiled, sometimes 
frowned away my importunities for a reply to my suit; 
but this day — I know not how it is — I feel a more 
sustained and settled courage to address thee, and learn 
the happiest or the worst. I have rivals, I know, 
rivals who are more powerful than the poor artist. 
Are they also more favored ? ” 

Isabel blushed faintly, but her countenance was grave 
and distressed. Looking down, and marking some 
hieroglyphical flgures in the dust with the point of her 
slipper, she said, with some hesitation and a vain 
attempt to he gay, “ Signor, whoever wastes his thoughts 


ZICCI. 


579 


on an actress must submit to have rivals. It is our 
unh’appy destiny not to be sacred even to ourselves.” 

“ But you have told me, Isabel, that you do not 
love this destiny, glittering though it seem; that 
your heart is not in the vocation which your talents 
adorn.” 

“ Ah, no,” said the actress, her eyes filling with tears, 

it is a miserable lot to be slave to a multitude.” 

“ Fly then with me,” said the artist, passionately. 

Quit forever the calling that divides that heart I would 
have all my own. Share my fate now and forever, — ■ 
my pride, my delight, my ideal! Thou shalt inspire 
my canvas and my song, thy beauty shall be made at 
once holy and renowned. In the galleries of princes 
crowds shall gather round the effigy of a Venus or a saint, 
and a whisper shall break forth, ‘ It is Isabel di Pisani ! * 
Ah ! Isabel , I adore thee ; tell me that I do not worship 
in vain.” 

“ Thou art good and fair,” said Isabel, gazing on her 
lover as he pressed his cheek nearer to hers, and clasped 
her hand in his. “ But what should I give thee in 
return ? ” 

“ Love, love, — only love! ” 

“ A sister’s love ? ” 

“ Ah, speak not with such cruel coldness! ” 

“It is all I have for thee. Listen to me, signor: 
When I look on your face, when I hear your voice, a 
certain serene and tranquil calm creeps over and lulls 
thoughts, — oh, how feverish, how wild! When thou 
art gone the day seems a shade more dark; but the 
shadow soon flies. I miss thee not; I think not of 
thee; no, I love thee not; and I will give myself only 
where I love.” 

“But I would teach thee to love me, — fear it not. 


580 


ZICCI. 


iNay, such love as thou now describest in our tranquil 
climates is the love of innocence and youth.” 

“And it is the innocence he would destroy,” said 
Isabel, rather to herself than to him. 

Glyndon drew back conscience-stricken. 

“ No, it may not be ! ” she said, rising, and extricating 
her hand gently from his grasp. “ Leave me, and 
forget me. You do not understand, you could not 
comprehend, the nature of her whom you think to love. 
From my childhood upward, I have felt as if I were 
marked out for some strange and preternatural doom; as 
if I were singled from my kind; this feeling (and oh! 
at times it is one of delirious and vague delight, at 
others of the darkest gloom) deepens with me day by 
day. It is like the shadow of twilight, spreading 
slowly and solemnly round. My hour approaches: a 
little while and it will be night! ” 

As she spoke, Glyndon listened with visible emotion 
and perturbation. “Isabel!” he exclaimed, as she 
ceased, “ your words more than ever enchain me to you. 
As you feel, I feel. I, too, have been ever haunted with 
a chill and unearthly foreboding. Amidst the crowds of 
men I have felt alone. In all my pleasures, my toils, 
my pursuits, a warning voice has murmured in my 
ear, ‘ Time has a dark mystery in store for thy man- 
hood. ’ When you spoke it was as the voice of my own 
soul.” 

Isabel gazed upon him in wonder and fear. Her coun- 
tenance was as white as marble : and those features, so 
divine in their rare symmetry, might have served the 
Greek with a study for the Pythoness, when, from 
the mystic cavern and the bubbling spring, she first 
hears the voice of the inspiring God. Gradually the 
rigor apjd tension, of that wonderful face relaxed; 


ziccL 581 

the color returned, the pulse beat, the heart animated 
the frame. 

“ Tell me,’* she said, turning partially aside, — " tell 
me, have you seen, do you know, a stranger in this city, 
one of whom wild stories are afloat ? 

“ You speak of Zicci: I have seen him! I know 
him ? and you ? Ah ! he, too, would be my rival ! — he, 
too, would bear thee from me! ” 

“ You err,” said Isabel, hastily, and with a deep sigh; 
" he pleads for you : he informed me of your love ; he 
besought me not — not to reject it.” 

“ Strange being ! incomprehensible enigma ! why did 
you name him ? ” 

“Why? ah! I would have asked, whether, when 
you first saw him, the foreboding, the instinct, of which 
you spoke came on you more fearfully , more intelligibly 
than before; whether you felt at once repelled from him, 
yet attracted toward him; whether you felt,” and the 
actress spoke with hurried animation, “that with HIM 
was connected the secret of your life ! ” 

“ All this I felt,” answered Glyndon, in a trembling 
voice, “ the first time I was in his presence; though all 
around me was gay: music, amidst lamp-lit trees, light 
converse near, and heaven without a cloud above, my 
knees knocked together, my hair bristled, and my blood 
curdled like ice ; since then he has divided my thoughts 
with thee.” 

“ No more, no more,” said Isabel, in a stifled tone; 
“ there must be the hand of fate in this; I can speak no 
more to you now; farewell.” 

She sprang past him into the house, and closed the 
door. Glyndon did not dare to follow her, nor, strange 
as it may seem, was he so inclined. The thought and 
recollection of that moonlight hour in the gardens, of 


582 


ZICCI. 


the strange address of Zicci, froze up all human passion; 
Isabel, herself, if not forgotten, shrunk back like a 
shadow into the recesses of his breast. He shivered as 
he stepped into the sunlight and musingly retraced his 
steps into the more populous parts of that liveliest of 
Italian cities. 


ZICCI. 


583 


CHAPTER VIII. 

It was a small cabinet: the walls were covered with 
pictures, one of which was worth more than the whole 
lineage of the owner o2 the palace. Is not Art a won- 
derful thing? — a Venetian noble might be a fribble, or 
an assassin, — a scoundrel, or a dolt; worthless, or 
worse than worthless; yet he might have sat to Titian, 
and his portrait may be inestimable! — a few inches of> 
painted canvas a thousand times more valuable than a 
man with his veins and muscles, bruin, will, heart, 
and intellect. 

In this cabinet sat a man of about three and forty, — 
dark-eyed, sallow, with short, prominent features, a 
massive conformation of jaw, and thick, csensual, but 

resolute lips : this man was the Prince di . His 

form, middle-sized, but rather inclined to corpulence, 
was clothed in a loose dressing-robe of rich brocade ; on 
a table before him lay his sword and hat, a mask, dice 
and dice-box, a portfolio, and an inkstand of silver 
curiously carved. 

“Well, Mascari,” said the Prince, looking up toward 
his parasite, who stood by the embrasure of the deep-set 
barricaded window, — “ well, you cannot even guess who 
this insolent meddler was. A pretty person you to act 
the part of a Prince’s Ruffiano.” 

“ Am I to be blamed for dulness in not being able to 
conjecture who had the courage to thwart the projects of 
the Prince di . As well blame me for not account- 

ing for miracles.” 


584 


ZICCI. 


“ I will tell thee who it was, most sapient Mascari.” 

** Who, your Excellency ? ” 

“Zicci.” 

“ Ah ! he has the daring of the devil. But why does 
your Excellency feel so assured; does he court the 
actress ? ” 

“ I know not ; but there is a tone in that foreigner’s 
voice that I never can mistake, — so clear, and yet so 
hollow : when I hear it I almost fancy there is such a 
thing as conscience. However, we must rid ourselves 
of an impertinent. Mascari, Signor Zicci hath not yet 
honored our poor house with his presence. He is a 
distinguished stranger; we must give a banquet in his 
honor. ” 

“ Ah ! — and the cypress wine ! The cypress is the 
proper emblem of the grave. ” 

“ But this anon. I am superstitious : there are strange 
stories of his power and foresight : remember the Sicilian 
quackery ! But meanwhile the Pisani — ” 

“ Your Excellency is infatuated. The actress has 
bewitched you. ” 

“Mascari,” said the Prince, with a haughty smile, 
“ through these veins rolls the blood of the old Visconti, 
of those who boasted that no woman ever escaped 
their lust, and no man their resentment. The crown 
of my fathers has shrunk into a gewgaw and a toy ; their 
ambition and their spirit are undecayed. My honor is 
now enlisted in this pursuit, — Isabel must be mine.” 

“ Another ambuscade? ” said Mascari, inquiringly. 

“Nay, why not enter the house itself: the situation 
is lonely, and the door is not made of iron.” 

Before Mascari could reply, the gentleman of the 
chamber announced the Signor Zicci. 

The Prince involuntarily laid his hand on the sword 


ZICCL 


585 


placed on the table, then with a smile at his own 
impulse, rose, and met the foreigner at the threshold, 
with all the profuse and respectful courtesy of Italian 
simulation. 

“ This is an honor highly prized,” said the Prince; 
“ I have long desired the friendship of one so distin- 
guished — ” 

“ And I have come to give you that friendship,”, 
replied Zicci, in a sweet hut chilling voice. “ To no 
man yet in Naples have I extended this hand; permit 
it. Prince, to grasp your own.” 

The Neapolitan bowed over the hand he pressed; hut 
as he touched it, a shiver came over him, and his heart 
stood still. Zicci bent on him his dark, smiling eyes, 
and then seated himself with a familiar air. 

“ Thus it is signed and sealed, — I mean our friend- 
ship, noble Prince. And now I will tell you the object 
of my visit. I find, your Excellency, that, uncon- 
sciously perhaps, we are rivals. Can we not accommo- 
date our pretensions ? A girl of no moment, — an 
actress, — bah! it is not worth a quarrel. Shall we 
throw for her? He who casts the lowest shall resign 
his claim ? ” 

Mascari opened his small eyes to their widest extent; 
the Prince, no less surprised, but far too well world- 
read even to show what he felt, laughed aloud. 

" And were you, then, the cavalier who spoiled my 
night’s chase, and robbed me of my white doe? By 
Bacchus, it was prettily done.” 

" You must forgive me, my Prince; I knew not who 
it was, or my respect would have silenced my gallantry. ” 

“ All stratagems fair in love, as in war. Of course 
you profited by my defeat, and did not content yourself 
with leaving the little actress at her threshold? ” 


586 


ZICCI. 


"She is Diana for me,” answered Zicci, lightly; 
" whoever wins the wreath will not find a flower faded.” 

" And now you would cast for her, — well : ‘ but they 
tell me you are ever a sure player.” 

" Let Signor Mascari cast for us.” 

" Be it so. Mascari, the dice.” 

Surprised and perplexed, the parasite took up the 
three dice, deposited them gravely in the box, and 
rattled them noisily, while Zicci threw himself back 
carelessly in his chair and said, “ I give the first chance 
to your Excellency. ” 

Mascari interchanged a glance with his patron, and 
threw; the numbers were sixteen. 

“ It is a high throw,” said Zicci, calmly; " neverthe- 
less, Signor Mascari, I do not despond.” 

Mascari gathered up the dice, shook the box, and 
rolled the contents once more upon the table ; the 
number was the highest that can be thrown, — eighteen. 

The Prince darted a glance of fire at his minion, who 
stood with gaping mouth, staring at the dice, and shak- 
ing his head in puzzled wonder. 

“I have won, you see,” said Zicci; "may we be 
friends still ? ” 

" Signor,” said the Prince, obviously struggling with 
anger and confusion, “ the victory is already yours. 
But, pardon me, you have spoken lightly of this young 
girl; will anything tempt you to yield your claim? ” 

" Ah, do not think so ill of my gallantry.” 

“Enough,” said the Prince, forcing a smile; “I 
yield. Let me prove that I do not yield ungraciously : 
will you honor me with your presence at a little feast I 
propose to give on the Poyal birthday ? ” 

“ It is indeed a happiness to hear one command of 
yours which I can obey.” 


ziccL 587 

Zicci then turned the conversation , talked lightly and 
gayly, and soon afterwards departed. 

“Villain,” then exclaimed the Prince, grasping Mas- 
cari by the collar, “ you have betrayed me.” 

“ I assure your Excellency that the dice were properly 
arranged: he should have thrown twelve; hut he is the: 
Devil, and that ’s the end of it.” 

“ There is no time to be lost,” said the Prince, quit- 
ting hold of his parasite, who quietly resettled his 
cravat. 

“ My blood is up ; I will win this girl, if I die for 
it. Who laughed? Mascari, didst thou laugh? ” 

“ I, your Excellency, — I laugh? ” 

“ It sounded behind me,” said the Prince, gazing 
round. 


i 


588 


ZICCL 


CHAPTEE IX. 

It was the day on which Zicci had told Glyndon that 
he should ask for his decision in respect to Isabel, — the 
third day since their last meeting : the Englishman could 
not come to a resolution. Ambition, hitherto the 
leading passion of his soul, could not yet be silenced by 
love; and that love, such as it was, unreturned, beset 
by suspicions and doubts which vanished in the presence 
of Isabel, and returned when her bright face shone on 
his eyes no more, for — les ahsens ont toujours tort! 
Perhaps had he been quite alone, his feelings of honor, 
of compassion, of virtue, might have triumphed; and 
he would have resolved either to fly from Isabel, or to 
offer the love that has no shame. But Merton, cold, 
cautious, experienced, wary (such a nature has ever 
power over the imaginative and the impassioned), was 
at hand to ridicule the impression produced by Zicci, 
and the notion of delicacy and honor toward an Italian 
actress. It is true that Merton, who was no profligate, 
advised him to quit all pursuit of Isabel; but then the 
advice was precisely of that character which, if it 
deadens love, stimulates passion. By representing 
Isabel as one who sought to play a part with him, he 
excused to Glyndon his own selfishness, he enlisted the 
Englishman’s vanity and pride on the side of his pur- 
suit. Why should he not beat an adventuress at her 
own weapons 1 

Glyndon not only felt indisposed on that day to meet 
Zicci, but he felt also a strong desire to defeat the mys- 


ZICCI. 


589 


terious prophecy that the meeting should take place. 
Into this wish Merton readily entered. The young 
men agreed to be absent from Naples that day. Early 
in the morning they mounted their horses, and took the 
road to Baise. Glyndon left word at his hotel, that if 
Signor Zicci sought him, it was in the neighborhood of 
the once celebrated watering-place of the ancients that 
he should be found. 

They passed by Isabel’s house, hut Glyndon resisted 
the temptation of pausing there, and threading the grotto- 
of Pausilippo, they wound by a circuitous route back 
into the suburbs of the city, and took the opposite road 
which conducts to Portici and Pompeii. It was late 
at noon when they arrived at the former of these places. 
Here they halted to dine; for Merton had heard much 
of the excellence of the macaroni at Portici, and Merton 
was a hon vivant. 

They put up at an inn of very humble pretensions, 
and dined under an awning. Merton was more than 
usually gay; he pressed the Lacryma upon his friend, 
and conversed gayly. 

“ Well, my dear friend, we have foiled Signor Zicci in 
one of his predictions at least. You will have no faith 
in him hereafter.” 

“ The Ides are come, not gone.” 

“ Tush ! if he is a soothsayer, you are not Caesar. It 
is your vanity that makes you credulous : thank 
Heaven, I do not think myself of such importance that 
the operations of nature should be changed in order to- 
frighten me.” 

“ But why should the operations of nature he changed ? 
There may be a deeper philosophy than we dream of, — 
a philosophy that discovers the secrets of nature, but 
does not alter, by penetrating its courses.” 


590 


ZICCI. 


“ Ah! you suppose Zicci to be a prophet, — a reader 
of the future ; perhaps an associate of Genii and 
Spirits! ” 

“ I know not what to conjecture; hut I see no reason 
why he should seek, even if an impostor, to impose on 
me. An impostor must have some motive for deluding 
us, — either ambition or avarice. I am neither rich nor 
powerful; Zicci spends more in a week than I do in a 
year. Nay, a Neapolitan hanker told me, that the sums 
invested by Zicci in his hands, were enough to purchase 
half the lands of the Neapolitan noblesse.” 

“ Grant this to he true ; do you suppose the love to 
dazzle and mystify is not as strong with some natures as 
that of gold and power with others ? Zicci has a moral 
ostentation, and the same character that makes him rival 
kings in expenditure makes him not disdain to he won- 
dered at even by a humble Englishman.” 

Here the landlord, a little, fat, oily fellow, came up 
with a fresh bottle of Lacryma. He hoped their Excel- 
lencies were pleased. He was most touched, — touched 
to the heart that they liked the macaroni. Were their 
Excellencies going to Vesuvius; there was a slight 
eruption ; they could not see it where they were , hut it 
was pretty, and would be prettier still after sunset. 

“A capital idea,” cried Merton. “What say .you, 
Glyndon 1 ” 

“I have not yet seen an eruption; I should like it 
much. ” 

“ But is there no danger ? ” said the prudent Merton. 

“ Oh, not at all; the mountain is very civil at pres- 
ent. It only plays a little, just to amuse their Excel- 
lencies, the English.” 

“ Well, order the horses, and bring the hill; we will 
go before it is dark. Clarence, my friend, — nunc est 


ZICCI. 591 

bihendum ; but take care of the pede libero^ which 
won’t do for walking on lava! ” 

The bottle was finished, the bill paid, the gentlemen 
mounted, the landlord bowed, and they bent their way 
in the cool of the delightful evening toward Resina. 

The wine animated Glyndon, whose unequal spirits 
were, at times, high and brilliant as those of a school- 
boy released ; and the laughter of the northern tourists 
sounded oft and merrily along the melancholy domains 
of buried cities. 

Hesperus had lighted his lamp amidst the rosy skies 
as they arrived at Resina. Here they quitted their 
horses, and took mules and a guide. As the sky grew 
darker and more dark, the Mountain Fire burned with 
an intense lustre. In various streaks and streamlets 
the fountain of flame rolled down the dark summit, then 
undiminished by the eruption of 1822, and the English- 
men began to feel increase upon them as they ascended 
that sensation of solemnity and awe which makes the 
very atmosphere that surrounds the giant of the Plains 
of the Antique Hades. 

It was night, when, leaving the mules, they ascended 
on foot, accompanied by their guide and a peasant, who 
bore a rude torch. The guide was a conversable, garru- 
lous fellow, like most of his country and his calling ; and 
Merton, whose chief characteristics were a sociable tem- 
per and a hardy common sense, loved to amuse or to 
instruct himself on every incidental occasion. 

“Ah, Excellency,” said the guide, “your countrymen 
have a strong passion for the volcano. Long life to 
them ; they bring us plenty of money. If our fortunes 
depended on the Neapolitans, we should starve. ” 

“ True, they have no curiosity, ” said Merton. “ Do 
you remember, Glyndon, the contempt with which that 


592 


ZICCI. 


old count said to us, ‘ You will go to Vesuvius, I sup- 
pose; I have never been: why should I go? You have 
cold, you have hunger, you have fatigue, you have 
danger, and all for nothing but to see fire, which just 
looks as well in a brazier as a mountain. ’ Ha ! ha ! the 
old fellow was right.” 

“But, Excellency,” said the guide, “that is not all: 
some cavaliers think to ascend the moutain without 
our help. I am sure they deserve to tumble into the 
crater. ” 

“ They must be bold fellows to go alone; you don’t 
often find such.” 

“ Sometimes among the French, signor. But the 
other night, — I never was so frightened. I had been 
with an English party ; and a lady had left a pocket- 
book on the mountain, where she had been sketching. 
She ofi*ered me a handsome sum to return for it, and 
bring it to her at Naples. So I went in the evening, — 
I found it sure enough, and was about to return, when I 
saw a figure that seemed to emerge from the crater itself. 
The air was so pestiferous that I could not have con- 
ceived a human creature could breathe it and live. I 
was so astounded that I stood as still as a stone, till the 
figure came over the hot ashes, and stood before me face 
to face. Sancta Maria, what a head! ” 

“ What, hideous 1 ” 

“No; so beautiful , but so terrible. It had nothing 
human in its aspect.” 

“ And what said the Salamander ? ” 

“Nothing! It did not even seem to perceive me, 
though I was as near as I am to you; but its eyes 
seemed prying into the air. It passed by me quickly, 
and, walking across a stream of burning lava, soon van- 
ished on the other side of the mountain. I was curious 


ZICCI. 


593 


and foolhardy, and resolved to see if I could bear the 
atmosphere which this visitor had left; but, though I 
did not advance within thirty yards of the spot at which 
he had first appeared, I was driven hack by a vapor 
that wellnigh stifled me. Cospetto^ I have spat blood 
ever since.” 

“ It must be Zicci,” whispered Glyndon. 

“ I knew you would say so,” returned Merton, laughing. 

The little party had now arrived nearly at the sum- 
mit of the mountain; and unspeakably grand was the 
spectacle on which they gazed. From the crater arose 
a vapor, intensely dark, that overspread the whole back- 
ground of the heavens; in the centre whereof rose a 
flame, that assumed a form singularly beautiful. It 
might have been compared to a crest of gigantic feathers, 
the diadem of the mountain, high arched, and drooping 
downward with the hues delicately shaded off, and the 
whole shifting and tremulous as the plumage on a war- 
rior’s helm. The glare of the flame spread, luminous 
and crimson, over the dark and rugged ground on which 
they stood, and drew an innumerable variety of shadows 
from crag and hollow. An oppressive and sulphureous 
exhalation served to increase the gloomy and sublime 
terror of the place; but, on turning from the mountain, 
and toward the distant and unseen ocean, the contrast 
was wonderfully great; the heavens serene and blue, 
the stars still and calm as the eyes of Divine Love. It 
was as if the realms of the opposing principles of Evil 
and Good were brought in one view before the gaze of 
man! Glyndon — the enthusiast, the poet, the artist, 
the dreamer — was enchained and entranced by emotions 
vague and undefinable, half of delight and half of pain. 
Leaning on the shoulder of his friend, he gazed around 
him, and heard, with deepening awe, the rumbling of 

38 


594 


ZICCI. 


the earth below, the wheels and voices of the Ministry 
of Nature in her darkest and most inscrutable recess. 
Suddenly, as a bomb from a shell, a huge stone was 
flung hundreds of yards up from the jaws of the crater, 
and falling with a mighty crash upon the rock below, 
split into ten thousand fragments, which bounded down 
the sides of the mountain, sparkling and groaning as 
they went. One of these, the largest fragment, struck 
the narrow space of soil between the Englishman and 
the guide, not three feet from the spot where the former 
stood. Merton uttered an exclamation of terror, and 
Glyndon held his breath and shuddered. 

“Diavolo,” cried the guide. “Descend, Excellen- 
cies, descend; we have not a moment to lose; follow me 
close.” 

So saying, the guide and the peasant fled with as 
much swiftness as they were able to bring to bear. 
Merton, ever more prompt and ready than his friend, 
imitated their example; and Glyndon, more confused 
than alarmed, followed close. But they had not gone 
many yards, before, with a rushing and sudden blast, 
came from the crater an enormous volume of vapor. It 
pursued, it overtook, it overspread them. It swept the 
light from the heavens. All was abrupt and utter dark- 
ness, and through the gloom was heard the shout of the 
guide, already distant, and lost in an instant amidst the 
sound of the rushing gust, and the groans of the earth 
beneath. Glyndon paused. He was separated from his 
friend, — from the guide. He was alone, with the 
darkness and the terror. The vapor •rolled sullenly 
away; the form of the plumed fire was again dimly 
visible, and its struggling and perturbed reflection again 
shed a glow over the horrors of the path. Glyndon 
recovered himself, and sped onward. Below, he heard 


ZICCI. 


595 


the voice of Merton calling on him, though he no 
longer saw his form. The sound served as a guide. 
Dizzy and breathless, he bounded forward; when — 
hark! a sullen, slow, rolling sound in his ear! He 
halted, and turned back to gaze. The fire had over- 
flowed its course ; it had opened itself a channel amidst 
the furrows of the mountain. The stream pursued him, 
— fast, fast; and the hot breath of the chasing and pre- 
ternatural foe came closer and closer upon his cheek. 
He turned aside: he climbed desperately, with hands 
and feet, upon a crag, that, to the right, broke the 
scathed and blasted level of the soil. The stream rolled 
beside and beneath him, and then, taking a sudden wind 
round the spot on which he stood, interposed its liquid 
fire, abroad and impassable barrier, between his resting- 
place and escape. There he stood, cut off from descent, 
and with no alternative but to retrace his steps toward 
the crater, and thence seek — without guide or clew — 
some other pathway. 

Tor a moment his courage left him; he cried in 
despair, and in that overstrained pitch of voice which 
is never heard afar off, to the guide — to Merton — to 
return — to aid him. 

No answer came; and the Englishman, thus aban- 
doned solely to his own resources felt his spirit and 
energy rise against the danger. He turned back, and 
ventured as far toward the crater as the noxious exhal- 
ation would permit; then, gazing below, carefully and 
deliberately, he chalked out for himself a path, by 
which he trusted to shun the direction the fire-stream 
had taken, and trod firmly and quickly over the 
crumbling and heated strata. 

He had proceeded about fifty yards, when he halted 
abruptly; an unspeakable and unaccountable horror, 


596 


ZICCI. 


not hitherto felt amidst all his peril, came over him. 
He shook in every limb; his muscles refused his will; 
he felt, as it were, palsied and death-stricken. The 
horror, I say, was unaccountable, for the path seemed 
clear and safe. The fire, above and behind, burned out 
clear and far; and beyond, the stars lent him their 
cheering guidance. No obstacle was visible, — no danger 
seemed at hand. As thus, spell-bound and panic- 
stricken, he stood chained to the soil, — his breast 
heaving, large drops rolling down his brow, and his eyes 
starting wildly from their sockets, — he saw before him, 
at some distance, gradually shaping itself more and more 
distinctly to his gaze, a Colossal Shadow; a shadow 
that seemed partially borrowed from the human shape, 
but immeasurably above the human stature, — vague, 
dark, almost formless; and differing — he could not tell 
where, or why — not only from the proportions, but also 
from the limbs and outline of man. 

The glare of the volcano, that seemed to shrink and 
collapse from this gigantic and appalling apparition, 
nevertheless threw its light, redly and steadily, upon 
another shape that stood beside, quiet and motionless; 
and it was, perhaps, the contrast of these two things 
— the Being and the Shadow — that impressed the 
beholder with the difference between them, — the Man 
and the Superhuman. It was but for a moment, nay, for 
the tenth part of a moment, that this sight was permitted 
to the wanderer. A second eddy of sulphureous vapors 
from the volcano, yet more rapidly, yet more densely 
than its predecessor, rolled over the mountain; and 
either the nature of the exhalation, or the excess of his 
•own dread, was such, that Glyndon, after one wild gasp 
for breath, fell senseless on the earth. 


ZICCI. 


597 


CHAPTEE, X. 

Merton and the Italians arrived in safety at the spot 
where they had left the mules; and not till they had 
recovered their own alarm and hreath did they think of 
Glyndon. But then, as the minutes passed, and he 
appeared not, Merton — whose heart was as good, at 
least, as human hearts are in general — grew seriously 
alarmed. He insisted on returning to search for his 
friend; and by dint of prodigal promises, prevailed at 
last on the guide to accompany him. The lower part 
of the mountain lay calm and white in the starlight; and 
the guide’s practised eye could discern all objects on the 
surface, at a considerable distance. They had not, how- 
ever, gone very far, before they perceived two forms 
slowly approaching toward them. 

As they came near, Merton recognized the form of his 
friend. “ Thank Heaven, he is safe, ” he cried, turning 
to the guide. 

“ Holy angels befriend us, ” said the Italian, trembling. 
“Behold the very being that crossed me last Sabbath 
night. It is he ! — but his face is human now ! ” 

“ Signor Inglese, ” said the voice of Zicci, as Glyndon, 
pale, wan, and silent, returned passively the joyous 
greeting of Merton, — “ Signor Inglese, I told your friend 
we should meet to-night; you see, you have not foiled 
my prediction.” 

“ But how — hut where ? ” stammered Merton, in great 
confusion and surprise. 

“ I found your friend stretched on the ground, over- 
powered by the mephitic exhalation of the crater. I 


598 


ZICCI. 


bore him to a purer atmosphere; and, as I know the 
mountain well, I have conducted him safely to you. 
This is all our history. You see, sir, that were it not 
for that prophecy which you desired to frustrate, your 
friend would, ere this time, have been a corpse; one 
minute more and the vapor had done its work. Adieu ; 
good-night, and pleasant dreams. ” 

“ But, my preserver, you will not leave us, ” said 
Glyndon, anxiously, and speaking for the first time. 
“ Will you not return with us ? ” 

Zicci paused, and drew Glyndon aside. “ Young 
man, ” said he, gravely, “ it is necessary that we should 
again meet to-night. It is necessary that you should, 
ere the first hour of morning, decide on your fate. Will 
you marry Isabel di Pisani, or lose her forever ? Consult 
not your friend; he is sensible and wise, hut not now is 
his wisdom needed. There are times in life when, from 
the imagination, and not the reason, should wisdom 
come, — this for you is one of them. I ask not your 
answer now. Collect your thoughts, — recover your 
jaded and scattered spirits. It wants two hours of mid- 
night, — at midnight I will he with you ! ” 

“ Incomprehensible being, ” replied the Englishman, 
I would leave the life you have preserved in your own 
hands. But since I have known you my whole nature 
has changed. A fiercer desire than that of love burns 
in my veins : the desire not to resemble but to surpass 
my kind; the desire to penetrate and to share the secret 
of your own existence; the desire of a preternatural 
knowledge and unearthly power. Instruct me, school 
me, make me thine; and I surrender to thee at once, 
and without a murmur, the woman that, till I saw thee, 
I would have defied a world to obtain. ” 

“ I ask not the sacrifice, Glyndon, ” replied Zicci, 


ZICCI. 


599 


coldly, yet mildly, — “yet, shall 1 own it to thee! — I 
am touched by the devotion I have inspired. I sicken 
for human companionship, sympathy, and friendship; 
yet, I dread to share them, — for bold must be the man 
who can partake my existence, and enjoy my confidence. 
Once more I say to thee, in compassion and in warning, 
the choice of life is in thy hands, — to-morrow it will be 
too late. On the one hand, Isabel, a tranquil home, a 
happy and serene life ; pn the other hand, all is darkness, 
— darkness that even this eye cannot penetrate. ” 

“ But thou hast told me, that if I wed Isabel, I must 
he contented to be obscure ; and if I refuse, that knowl- 
edge and power may be mine. ” 

“ Vain man! knowledge and power are not happiness.” 

“ But they are better than happiness. Say, if I marry 
Isabel, wilt thou be my master, my guide ? — say this, 
and I am resolved.” 

“ Never ! It is only the lonely at heart — the restless, 
the desperate — that may be my pupils. ” 

“ Then I renounce her ! — I renounce love, I renounce 
happiness. Welcome solitude, welcome despair, — if 
they are the entrances to thy dark and sublime secret.” 

“ I will not take thy answer now ; at midnight thou 
shalt give it in one word, — ay or no! Farewell till 
then. ” 

The mystic waved his hand, and, descending rapidly, 
was seen no more. 

Glyndon rejoined his impatient and wondering friend; 
hut Merton, gazing on his face, saw that a great change 
had passed there. The flexile and dubious expression of 
youth was forever gone. The features were locked, 
rigid, and stern; and so faded was the natural bloom, 
that an hour seemed to have done the work of years. 


600 


ZICCL 


CHAPTEE XL 

On returning from Vesuvius or Pompeii, you enter 
Naples through its most animated, its most Neapolitan 
quarter, — through that quarter in which modern life 
most closely resembles the • ancient; and in which, when, 
on a fair day, the thoroughfare swarms alike with indo- 
lence and trade, you are impressed at once with the 
recollection of that restless, lively race, from which the 
population of Naples derives its origin: so that in one 
day you may see at Pompeii the habitations of a remote 
age ; and on the Mole at Naples, you may imagine you 
behold the very beings with which those habitations had 
been peopled. The language of words is dead, but the 
language of gestures remains little impaired. A fisher- 
man, a peasant, of Naples, will explain to you the 
motions, the attitudes, the gestures of the figures painted 
on the antique vases, better than the most learned anti- 
quary of Gottingen or Leipsic. 

But now, as the Englishmen rode slowly through the 
deserted streets, lighted but by the lamps of heaven, all 
the gayety of the day was hushed and breathless. Here 
and there, stretched under a portico or a dingy booth, 
were sleeping groups of houseless Lazzaroni, — a tribe 
now happily merging this indolent individuality amidst an 
energetic and active population. 

The Englishmen rode on in silence; for Glyndon 
neither appeared to heed or hear the questions and com- 
ments of Merton, and Merton him.self was almost as 
weary as the jaded animal he bestrode. 


ZICCI. 


601 


Suddenly the silence of earth and ocean was broken by 
the sound of a distant clock that proclaimed the last hour 
of night. Glyndon started from his revery, and looked 
anxiously around. As the final stroke died, the noise 
of hoofs rung on the broad stones of the pavement, 
and from a narrow street to the right emerged the 
form of a solitary horseman. He neared the English- 
men, and Glyndon recognized the features and mien of 
Zicci. 

“ What ! do we meet again, signor ? ” said Merton, in 
a vexed but drowsy tone. 

“ Your friend and I have business together,” replied 
Zicci, as he wheeled his powerful and fiery steed to the 
side of Glyndon ; “ but it will be soon transacted. Per- 
haps you, sir, will ride on to your hotel. ” 

“ Alone?” 

“ There is no danger, ” returned Zicci, with a slight 
expression of disdain in his voice. 

“ Hone to me, but to Glyndon? ” 

“ Danger from me. Ah, — perhaps you are right.” 

“ Go on, my dear Merton,” said Glyndon, “ I will join 
you before you reach the hotel. ” 

Merton nodded, whistled, and pushed his horse into a 
kind of amble. 

“ How your answer, — quick.” 

“ I have decided : the love of Isabel has vanished 
from my heart. The pursuit is over.” 

“ You have decided? ” 

« I have.” 

“Adieu! join your friend.” 

Zicci gave the rein to his horse: it sprang forward 
with a bound; the sparks flew from its hoofs, and horse 
and rider disappeared amidst the shadows of the street 
whence they had emerged. 


602 


ZICCI. 


Merton was surprised to see his friend by his side, a 
minute after they had parted. 

“ What business can you have with Zicci ? Will you 
not confide in me 1 ” 

" Merton, do not ask me to-night; I am in a dream.” 

“ I do not wonder at it, for even I am in a sleep. Let 
as push on.” 

In the retirement of his chamber, Glyndon sought to 
re-collect his thoughts. He sat down on the foot of his 
bed, and pressed his hands tightly to his throbbing 
temples. The events of the last few hours, — the appari- 
tion of the gigantic and shadowy Companion of the 
Mystic amidst the fires and clouds of Vesuvius; the 
strange encounter with Zicci himself, on a spot in which 
he could never have calculated on finding Glyndon — 
filled his mind with emotions in which terror and awe 
the least prevailed. A fire, the train of which had long 
been laid, was lighted at his heart, — the asbestos fire 
that once lit is never to be quenched. All his early 
aspiration, his young ambition, his longings for the 
laurel, were mingled in one passionate yearning to 
overpass the bounds of the common knowledge of man, 
and reach that solemn spot, between two worlds, on 
which the mysterious stranger appeared to have fixed 
his home. 

Far from recalling with renewed affright the remem- 
brance of the apparition that had so appalled him, the 
recollection only served to kindle and concentrate his 
curiosity into a burning focus. He had said aright, — 
love had vanished from his heart; there was no longer a 
serene space amidst its disordered elements for human 
affection to move and breathe. The enthusiast was 
rapt from this earth ; and he would have surrendered all 
that beauty ever promised , that mortal hope ever whis- 


ZICCI. 


t)U3 


pered , for one hour with Zicci beyond the portals of the 
visible world. 

He rose, oppressed and fevered with the new thoughts 
that raged within him, and threw open his casement for 
air. The ocean lay suffused in the starry light, and the 
stillness of the heavens never more eloquently preached 
the morality of repose to the madness of earthly pas- 
sions. But such was Glyndon’s mood that their very 
hush only served to deepen the wild desires that preyed 
upon his soul. And the solemn stars, that are myste- 
ries in themselves, seemed by a kindred sympathy to 
agitate the wings of the spirit no longer contented with 
its cage. As he gazed, a star shot from its brethren 
and vanished from the depth of space! 


604 


ZICCI. 


CHAPTEE XII. 

The sleep of Glyndon, that night, was unusually pro- 
found, and the sun streamed full upon his eyes as he 
opened them to the day. He rose refreshed, and with 
a strange sentiment of calmness that seemed more the 
result of resolution than exhaustion. The incidents 
and emotions of the past night had settled into distinct 
and clear impressions. He thought of them but 
slightly, — he thought rather of the future. He was as 
one of the Initiated in the old Egyptian Mysteries who 
have crossed the Gate only to look more ardently for 
the Penetralia. 

He dressed himself, and was relieved to find that 
Merton had joined a party of his countrymen on an 
excursion to Ischia. He spent the heat of noon in 
thoughtful solitude, and gradually the image of Isabel 
returned to his heart. It was a holy — for it was a 
human — image : he had resigned her, and he repented. 
The light of day served, if not to dissipate, at least to 
sober the turbulence and fervor of the preceding night. 
But was it indeed too late to retract his resolve % Too 
late! terrible words! Of what do we not repent, when 
the Ghost of the Deed returns to us to say, “ Thou 
hast no recall ? ” 

He started impatiently from his seat, seized his hat 
and sword, and strode with rapid steps to the humble 
abode of the actress. 

The distance was considerable, and the air oppressive. 
Glyndon arrived at the door breathless and heated. He 




ZICCI. 


605 


knocked, no answer came; he lifted the latch and en- 
tered. No sound, no sight of life, met his ear and eye. 
In the front chamber, on a table, lay the guitar of the 
actress and some manuscript parts in plays. He paused, 
and summoning courage, tapped at the door which seemed 
to lead into the inner apartment. The door was ajar; 
and, hearing no sound within, he pushed it open. It 
was the sleeping chamber of the young actress, — that 
holiest ground to a lover; and well did the place become 
the presiding deity : none of the tawdry finery of the 
Profession was visible on the one hand, none of the 
slovenly disorder common to the humbler classes of the 
South on the other. All was pure and simple ; even the 
ornaments were those of an innocent refinement, — a few 
books, placed carefully on shelves, a few half-faded 
flowers in an earthen vase, which was modelled and 
painted in the Etruscan fashion. The sunlight streamed 
over the snowy draperies of the bed, and a few articles 
of clothing, neatly folded, on the chair beside it. Isabel 
was not there; and Glyndon, as he gazed around, ob- 
served that the casement which opened to the ground was 
wrenched and broken, and several fragments of the shat- 
tered glass lay below. The light flashed at once upon 
Glyndon’s mind, — the ravisher had borne away his prize. 
The ominous words of Zicci were fulfilled: it was too 
late! Wretch that he was! perhaps he miglit have saved 
her. But the nurse , — was she gone also ? He made the 
house resound with the name of Gionetta, but there 
was not even an echo to reply. He resolved to repair 
at once to the abode of Zicci. On arriving at the palace 
of the Corsican, he was informed that the signor was 

gone to the banquet of the Prince di , and would 

not return until late. He turned, in dismay from the 
door, and perceived the heavy carriage of the Count 


606 


ZICCI. 


Cetoxa rolling along the narrow street. Cetoxa recog- ^ 
nized him and stopped the carriage. 

“Ah! my dear Signor Glyndon,” said he, leaning; 
out of the window, “ and how goes your health ? You i 
heard the news ? ” 

“ What news ? ” asked Glyndon, mechanically. 

“ Why the beautiful actress, — the wonder of Naples! ! 
I always thought she would have good luck.” 

“ Well, well, what of her? ” 

“ The Prince di has taken a prodigious fancy to 

her, and has carried her to his own palace. The Court 
is a little scandalized.” 

“ The villain! by force? ” 

“ Force! Ha! ha! my dear signor, what need of force 
to persuade an actress to accept the splendid protection 
of one of the wealthiest noblemen in Italy ? Oh, no I 
you may he sure she went willingly enough. I only 
just heard the news; the Prince himself proclaimed his 
triumph this morning, and the accommodating Mascari 
has been permitted to circulate it. I hope the connec- 
tion will not last long, or we shall lose our best singer, 
— addio.” 

Glyndon stood mute and motionless. He knew not 
■ what to think — to believe — or how to act. Even 
Merton was not at hand to advise him. His conscience 
smote him bitterly; and half in despair, half in the 
courageous wrath of jealousy, he resolved to repair to 
the palace of the Prince himself, and demand his captive 
in the face of his assembled guests. 


ZICCI. 


607 


CHAPTER XIII. 

We must go back to the preceding night. The actress 
and her nurse had returned from the theatre; and Isabel, 
fatigued and exhausted, had thrown herself on a sofa, 
while Gionetta busied herself with the long tresses 
which, released from the fillet that bound them, half 
concealed the form of the actress, like a veil of threads 
of gold; and while she smoothed the luxuriant locks, 
the old nurse ran gossiping on about the little events of 
the night, — the scandal and politics of the scenes, and 
the tire-room. 

The clock sounded the hour of midnight, and still 
Isabel detained the nurse; for a vague and foreboding 
fear she' could not account for, made her seek to pro- 
tract the time of solitude and rest. 

At length Gionetta’s voice was swallowed up in suc- 
cessive yawns. She took her lamp, and departed to her 
own room, which was placed in the upper story of the 
house. Isabel was alone. The half hour after mid- 
night sounded dull and distant; all was still, and she 
was about to enter her sleeping-room, when she heard 
the hoofs of a horse at full speed ; the sound ceased , — 
there was a knock at the door. Her heart beat vio- 
lently ; but fear gave way to another sentiment when she 
heard a voice, too well known, calling on her name. 
She went to the door. 

" Open, Isabel, — it is Zicci,” said the voice again. 


60B 


ZICCI. 


And why did the actress feel fear no more, and 
why did that virgin hand unhar the door to admit, 
without a scruple or a doubt, at that late hour, the 
visit of the fairest cavalier of Naples? I know not; 
but Zicci had become her destiny, and she obeyed 
the voice of her preserver as#f it were the command of 
Fate. 

Zicci entered with a light and hasty step. His 
horseman’s cloak fitted tightly to his noble form, and 
the raven plumes of his broad hat threw a gloomy shade 
over his commanding features. 

The girl followed him into the room, trembling and 
blushing deeply, and stood before him with the lamp she 
held, shining upward on her cheek, and the long hair 
that fell like a shower of light over the bare shoulders 
and heaving bust. 

“ Isabel,” said Zicci, in a voice that spoke deep emo- 
tion, “ I am by thy side once more to save thee. Not a 
moment is to be lost. Thou must fly with me, or 

remain the victim of the Prince di . 1 would 

have made the charge I now undertake another’s: thou 
knowest I would, — thou knowest it; but he is not 
worthy of thee, — the cold Englishman! I throw 
myself at thy feet; have trust in me, — and fly.” 

He grasped her hand passionately as he dropped on 
his knee, and looked up into her face with his bright, 
beseeching eyes. 

“ Fly with thee! ” said Isabel, tenderly. 

"Thou knowest the penalty: name, fame, honor, — 
all will be sacrificed if thou dost not.” 

" Then — then,” said the wild girl, falteringly, and 
turning aside her face, — " then I am not indifferent to 
thee. Thou wouldest not give me to another: thou 
lovest me ? ” 


ZICCI. 


609 


Zicci was silent; but his breast heaved, his cheeks 
flushed, his eyes darted dark hut impassioned fire. 

‘‘ Speak! ” exclaimed Isabel, in jealous suspicion of 
his silence. “ Speak, if thou lovest me.’^ 

“ I dare not tell thee so : I will not yet say I love 
thee.” 

“ Then what matter my fate ? ” said Isabel, turning 
pale and shrinking from his side; “leave me, — I fear 
no danger. My life, and therefore my honor, is in mine 
own hands. ” 

“Be not so mad,” said Zicci. “ Hark! do you hear 
the neigh of my steed? — it is an alarm that warns us of 
the approaching peril; haste, or you are lost.” 

“Why do you care for me? ” said the girl, bitterly. 
“ Thou hast read my heart : thou knowest that I 
would fly with thee to the end of the world, if I were 
but sure of thy love; that all sacrifice of womanhood’s 
repute were sweet to me, if regarded as the proof and 
seal of affection. But to be bound beneath the weight 
of a cold obligation; to be the beggar on the eyes of 
Indifference; to throw myself on one who loves me 
not, — that were indeed the vilest sin of my sex. Ah! 
Zicci, rather let me die.” 

She had thrown back her clustering hair from her 
face as she spoke , and as she now stood with her arms 
drooping mournfully, and her hands clasped together 
with the proud bitterness of her wayward spirit giving 
new zest and charm to her singular beauty, it was 
impossible to conceive a sight more irresistible to the 
senses and the heart. 

“ Tempt me not to thine own danger, — perhaps 
destruction,” exclaimed Zicci, in faltering accents. 
“ Thou canst not dream of what thou wouldest demand, 
— come; ” and, advancing, he wound his arm round her 

39 


610 


ZICCI. 


waist, — “come, Isabel; believe at least in my friend- 
ship, my protection — ” 

“ And not thy love,” said the Italian, turning on him 
her hurried and reproachful eyes. Those eyes met his, 
and he could not withdraw from the charm of their gaze. 
He felt her heart throbbing beneath his own, — her 
breath came warm upon his cheek. He trembled, — 
he! — the lofty, the mysterious Zicci, who seemed to 
stand aloof from his race. With a deep and burning 
sigh, he murmured, “ Isabel, I love thee! ” 

That beautiful face, bathed in blushes, drooped upon 
his bosom; and, as he bent down, his lips sought the 
rosy mouth ; a long and burning kiss, — danger, life, 
the world was forgotten ! Suddenly Zicci tore himself 
from her. 

“ Oh, what have I said ? It is gone ; my power to 
preserve thee, to guard thee, to foresee the storm in 
thy skies, is gone forever. No matter! Haste! — 
haste; and may love supply the loss of prophecy and 
power! ” 

Isabel hesitated no more. She threw her mantle 
over her shoulders, and gathered up her dishevelled 
hair; a moment, and she was prepared, when a sudden 
crash was heard in the inner room. 

“ Too late ! — fool that I was, — too late ! ” cried Zicci , 
in a sharp tone of agony, as he hurried to the outer 
door. He opened it, only to be borne back by the press 
of armed men, — behind, before; escape was cut off! 
The room literally swarmed with the followers of the 
ravisher, masked, mailed, armed to the teeth. 

Isabel was already in the grasp of two of the myrmi- 
dons; her shriek smote the ear of Zicci. He sprang 
forward, and Isabel heard his wild cry in a foreign 
tongue! — the gleam, the clash of swords. She lost her 


ZICCI. 


611 


senses ; and when she recovered, she found herself 
gagged, and in a carriage that was driven rapidly, by the 
side of a masked and motionless figure. The carriage 
stopped at the portals of a gloomy mansion. The 
gates opened noiselessly; a broad flight of steps, bril- 
liantly illumined, was before her, — she was in the 
palace of the Prince di . 


612 


ZICCL 


CHAPTEE XIV. 

The young actress was led to, and left alone in a diam- 
her adorned with all the luxurious and half-Eastern 
taste that, at one time, characterized the palaces of the 
great seigneurs of Italy. Her first thought was for 
Zicci: was he yet living; had he escaped unscathed 
the blades of the foe ? — her new treasure, the new light 
of her life, her lord, at last her lover. 

She had short time for reflection. She heard steps 
approaching the chamber; she drew hack. She placed 
her hand on the dagger that at all hours she wore con- 
cealed in her bosom. Living, or dead, she would he 
faithful still to Zicci ! There was a new motive to the 
preservation of honor. The door opened, and the 
Prince entered in a dress that sparkled with jewels. 

“Pair and cruel one,” said he, advancing, with a 
half-sneer upon his lip, “thou wilt not too harshly 
blame the violence of love.” He attempted to take her 
hand as he spoke. 

“Nay,” said he, as she recoiled, “reflect that thou 
art now in the power of one tliat never faltered in the 
pursuit of an object less dear to him than thou art. 
Thy lover, presumptuous though he be, is not by to save 
thee. Mine thou art, but instead of thy master, suffer 
me to be thy slave.” 

“My lord,” said Isabel, with a stern gravity which 
perhaps the stage had conspired with nature to bestow 
upon her, “your boast is in vain: — your power! I am 


ZICCI. 


613 


not in your power. ^Life and death are in my own 
hands. I will not defy, — hut I do not fear you. I 
feel, — and in some feelings,” added Isabel, with a 
solemnity almost thrilling, “ there is all the strength and 
all the divinity of knowledge, — I feel that I am safe 

even here; hut you — you Prince di , have brought 

danger to your home and hearth ! ” 

The Neapolitan seemed startled by an earnestness and 
a boldness he was but little prepared for. He was not, 
however, a man easily intimidated or deterred from any 
purpose he had formed: and, approaching Isabel, he 
was about to reply with much warmth, real or affected, 
when a knock was heard at the door of the chamber. 
The sound was repeated, and the Prince, chafed at the 
interruption, opened the door, and demanded, impa- 
tiently, who had ventured to disobey his orders, and 
invade his leisure. Mascari presented himself, pale and 
agitated: “My lord,” said he, in a whisper, “pardon 
me; but a stranger is below, who insists on seeing you; 
and from some words he let fall, I judged it advisable 
even to infringe your commands.” 

“ A stranger, — and at this hour! What business can 
he pretend ? Why was he even admitted ? ” 

“ He asserts that your life is in imminent danger. 
The source whence it proceeds he will relate to your 
Excellency alone.” 

The Prince frowned; but his color changed. He 
mused a moment, and then, re-entering the chamber, and 
advancing toward Isabel, he said, — 

“ Believe me , fair creature , I have no wish to take 
advantage of my power. I would fain trust alone to 
the gentler authorities of affection. Hold yourself queen 
within these walls more absolutely than you have ever 
enacted that part on the stage. To-night, farewell! 


614 


ZICCI. 


May your sleep be calm, and your dreams propitious to 
my hopes! ” 

With these words he retired, and in a few moments 
Isabel was surrounded by officious attendants, whom she 
at length, with some difficulty, dismissed; and refusing 
to retire to rest, she spent the night in examining the 
chamber, which she found was secured, and in thoughts 
of Zicci, in whose power she felt an almost preternatural 
confidence. 

Meanwhile the Prince descended the stairs, and 
sought the room into which the stranger had been 
shown. 

He found him wrapped from head to foot in a long 
robe — half gown, half mantle — such as was sometimes 
worn by ecclesiastics. The face of this stranger was 
remarkable: so sunburnt and swarthy were his hues, 
that he must, apparently, have derived his origin amongst 
the races of the farthest East. His forehead was lofty, 
and his eyes so penetrating, yet so calm in their gaze 
that the Prince shrunk from them as we shrink from a 
questioner who is drawing forth the guiltiest secrets of 
our hearts. 

“What would you with me?” asked the Prince, 
motioning his visitor to a seat. 

“ Prince di ,” said the stranger, in a voice deep 

and sweet, but foreign in its accent, “ son of the most 
energetic and masculine race that ever applied godlike 
genius to the service of the Human Will, with its 
winding wickedness and its stubborn grandeur, — 
descendant of the great Visconti, in whose chronicles 
lies the History of Italy in her palmy day, and in whose 
rise was the development of the mightiest intellect 
ripened by the most relentless ambition, — 1 come to 
gaze upon the last star in a darkening firmament. By 


zicci. 615 

this hour to-morrow space shall know it not. Man! 
thy days are numbered ! ” 

“ What means this jargon ? ” said the Prince, in 
visible astonishment and secret awe. “ Comest thou 
to menace me in my own halls, or wouldest thou warn 
me of a danger 1 Art thou some itinerant mountebank, 
or some unguessed-of friend? Speak out, and plainly. 
What danger threatens me ? ” 

“ Zicci ! ” replied the stranger. 

“Ha! ha!” said the Prince, laughing scornfully; 
“I half suspected thee from the first. Thou art, then, 
the accomplice or the tool of that most dexterous, hut, 
at present, defeated charlatan. And I suppose thou 
wilt tell me that, if I were to release a certain captive 
I have made, the danger would vanish, and the hand of 
the dial would he put hack ? ” 

“ Judge of me as thou wilt. Prince di . I confess 

my knowledge of Zicci ; a knowledge shared but by a 
few, who — hut this touches thee not. I would save, — 
therefore I warn thee. Dost thou ask me why ? I will 
tell thee. Canst thou remember to have heard wild 
tales of thy grandsire; of his desire for a knowledge 
that passes that of the schools and cloisters; of a 
strange man from the East, who was his familiar and 
master in lore, against which the Vatican has from age 
to age launched its mimic thunder? Dost thou call to 
mind the fortunes of thy ancestor ? — how he succeeded 
in youth to little hut a name ; how, after a career wild 
and dissolute as thine, he disappeared from Milan, a 
pauper and a self-exile; how, after years spent, — none 
knew in what climes or in what pursuits, — he again 
revisited the city where his progenitors had reigned; 
how with him came this wise man of the East, — the 
mystic Mejnour; how they who beheld him, beheld 


616 


ZICCI. 


with amaze and fear that time had ploughed no furrow 
on his brow, that youth seemed fixed as by a spell upon 
his face and form ? Dost thou know that from that hour 
his fortunes rose? Kinsmen the most remote died; 
estate upon estate fell into the hands of the ruined 
noble. He allied himself with the royalty of Austria, 
— he became the guide of princes, the first magnate of 
Italy. He founded anew the house of which thou art 
the last lineal upholder, and transferred its splendor 
from Milan to the Sicilian realms. Visions of high 
ambition were then present with him nightly and daily. 
Had he lived, Italy would have known a new dynasty, 
and the Visconti would have reigned over Magna- 
Grecia. He was a man such as the world rarely sees ; 
he was worthy to be of us, worthy to be the pupil of 
Mejnour, — whom you now see before you.” 

The Prince, who had listened with deep and breath- 
less attention to the words of his singular guest, started 
from his seat at his last words. “ Impostor ! ” he cried, 
“ can you dare thus to play with my credulity ? Sixty 
years have passed since my grandsire died, and you, a 
man younger apparently than myself, have the assurance 
to pretend to have been his contemporary! But you 
have imperfectly learned your tale. You know not, it 
seems, that my grandsire — wise and illustrious indeed, 
in all save his faith in a charlatan — was found dead in 
his bed, in the very hour when his colossal plans were 
ripe for execution, and that Mejnour was guilty of his 
murder? ” 

Alas! ” answered the stranger, in a voice of great 
sadness, “had he hut listened to Mejnour, had he 
delayed the last and most perilous ordeal of daring 
wisdom until the requisite training and initiation had 
been completed, your ancestor would have stood with 


ZICCI. 


617 


me upon an eminence which the waters of Death itself 
wash everlastingly, but cannot overflow. Your grand- 
sire resisted my fervent prayers, disobeyed my most ab- 
solute commands, and in the sublime rashness of a soul 
that panted for the last secrets, perished, — the victim of 
his own frenzy.” 

“ He was poisoned, and Mejnour fled.” 

" Mejnour fled not,” answered the stranger, quickly 
and proudly. “ Mejnour could not fly from danger, for 
to him danger is a thing long left behind. It was the 
day before the duke took the fatal draught, which he 
believed was to confer on the mortal the immortal boon, 
that finding my power over him was gone, I abandoned 
him to his doom. On the night on which your grand- 
sire breathed his last, I was standing alone at moonlight 
on the ruins of Persepolis, — for my wanderings space 
hath no obstacle. But a truce with this : I loved your 
grandsire ; I would save the last of his race. Oppose not 
thyself to Zicci. Oppose not thyself to thine evil pas- 
sions. Draw back from the precipice while there is yet 
time. In thy front, and in thine eyes, I detect some 
of that diviner glory which belonged to thy race. Thou 
hast in thee some germs of their hereditary genius, but 
they are choked up by worse than thy hereditary vices. 
Recollect, by genius thy house rose; by vice, it ever 
failed to perpetuate its power. In the laws which 
regulate the Universe it is decreed that nothing wicked 
can long endure. Be wise, and let history warn thee. 
Thou standest on the verge of two worlds, — the past and 
the future; and voices from either shriek omen in thy 
ear. I have done. I bid thee farewell.” 

“Not so; thou shalt not quit these walls. I will 
make experiment of thy boasted power. What, ho 
there! ho! ” 


618 


ZlCCl. 


The Prince shouted, the room was filled with his 
minions. 

“Seize that man!” he cried, pointing to the spot 
which had been filled by the form of Mejnour. To his 
inconceivable amaze and horror the spot was vacant. 
The mysterious stranger had vanished like a dream. 


ZICCL 


619 


CHAPTER XV. 

It was the first faint and gradual break of the summer 
dawn ; and two men stood in a balcony overhanging a 
garden fragrant with the scents of the awakening flowers. 
The stars had not left the sky, — the birds were yet 
silent on the boughs; all was still, hushed, and tran- 
quil ; hut how different the tranquillity of reviving day 
from the solemn repose of night! In the music of 
silence there are a thousand variations. These men, 
who alone seemed awake in Naples, were Zicci and the 
mysterious stranger, who had hut an hour or two ago 
startled the Prince di in his voluptuous palace. 

“ No,” said the latter, “ hadst thou delayed the accept- 
ance of the Arch Gift, until thou hadst attained to the 
years, and passed through all the desolate bereavements 
that chilled and scared myself, ere my researches had 
made it mine, thou wouldest have escaped the curse of 
which thou complainest now. Thou wouldest not have 
mourned over the brevity of human affection as compared 
to the duration of thine own existence ; for thou wouldest 
have survived the very desire and dream of the love of 
woman. Brightest, and hut for that error, perhaps the 
loftiest of the secret and solemn race that fills up the 
interval in creation between mankind and the demons, 
age after age wilt thou rue the splendid folly which made 
thee ask to carry the beauty and the passions of youth 
into the dreary grandeur of earthly immortality. ” 

“ I do not repent, nor shall I, ” answered Zicci, coldly. 
** The transport and the sorrow, so wildly blended, which 


620 


ZICCI. 


diversify my doom, are better than the calm and bloodless 
tenor of thy solitary way. Thou, who lovest nothing, 
hatest nothing, — feelest nothing, and walkest the world 
with the noiseless and joyless footsteps of a dream! ” 

“ You mistake, replied he who had owned the name 
of Mejnour, — “ though I care not for love, and am dead 
to every passion that agitates the sons of clay, I am not 
dead to their more serene enjoyments. I have still left 
to me the sublime pleasures of wisdom and of friendship. 
I carry down the stream of the countless years, not the 
turbulent desires of youth, but the calm and spiritual 
delights of age. Wisely and deliberately I abandoned 
youth forever when I separated my lot from men. Let 
us not envy or reproach each other. I would have saved 
this Neapolitan, Zicci (since so it now pleases thee to be 
called), partly because' his grandsire was but divided by 
the last airy barrier from our own brotherhood, — partly 
because I know that in the man himself lurk the elements 
of ancestral courage and power, which in earlier life 
would have fitted him for one of us. Earth holds but 
few to whom nature has given the qualities that can 
bear the ordeal! But time and excess, that have thick- 
ened the grosser senses, have blunted the imagination. 
I relinquish him to his doom. ” 

“ And still then, Mejnour, you cherish the desire to 
increase our scanty and scattered host by new converts 
and allies ; surely — surely — thy experience might have 
taught thee that scarcely once in a thousand years is 
born the being who can pass through the horrible gates 
that lead into the worlds without. Is not thy path 
already strewed with thy victims ? Do not their ghastly 
faces of agony and fear — the bloodstained suicide, the rav- 
ing maniac — rise before thee, and warn what is yet left 
to thee of human sympathy from thy insane ambition ? ” 


ZICCI. 


621 


• ‘‘Nay,” answered Mejnour, — “ have I not had success 
to counterbalance failure? And can I forego this lofty 
and august hope, worthy alone of our high condition, — 
the hope to form a mighty and numerous race with a 
force and power sufficient to permit them to acknowledge 
to mankind their majestic conquests and dominion; to> 
become the true lords of this planet, invaders, per- 
chance, of others, masters of the inimical and malignant 
tribes by which at this moment we are surrounded, — a 
race that may proceed, in their deathless destinies, from 
stage to stage of celestial glory, and rank at last among 
the nearest ministrants and agents gathered round the 
Throne of Thrones? What matter a thousand victims 
for one convert to our band? And you, Zicci,” continued 
Mejnour, after a pause, — “you, even you, should this 
affection for a mortal beauty that you have dared, despite 
yourself, to cherish, be more than a passing fancy, should 
it, once admitted into your inmost nature, partake of its 
bright and enduring essence, — bv^en you may brave all 
things to raise the beloved one into your equal. Nay, 
interrupt me not. Can you see sickness menace her, 
danger hover around, years creep on, the eyes grow dim, 
the beauty fade, while the heart, youthful still, clings 
and fastens round your own, — can you see this, and 
know it is yours to — ” 

“ Cease, ” cried Zicci, fiercely. “ What is all other 
fate as compared to the death of terror ? What ! when 
the coldest sage, the most heated enthusiast, the hardiest 
warrior, with his nerves of iron, have been found dead in 
their beds, with straining eyeballs and horrent hair, at 
the first step of the Dread Progress, — thinkest thou that 
this weak woman from whose cheek a sound at the 
window, the screech of the night-owl, the sight of a drop 
of blood on a man’s sword, would start the color, could 


622 


ZICCL 


brave one glance of — away ! the very thought of such 
sights for her makes even myself a coward! ” 

“ When you told her you loved her, — when you 
clasped her to your breast, you renounced all power to 
prophesy her future lot, or protect her from harm. 
Henceforth to her you are human, and human only. 
How know you, then, to what you may be tempted; 
how know you what her curiosity may learn and her 
courage brave 1 But enough of this, — you are bent on 
your pursuit ? ” 

“ The fiat has gone forth. ” 

“ And to-morrow ? ” 

“ To-morrow at this hour our bark will be bounding 
over yonder ocean, and the weight of ages will have 
fallen from my heart! Fool, thou hast given up thy 
youth ! ” 


ZICCI. 


623 


CHAPTEE XVI. 

The Prince di was not a man whom Naples could 

suppose to be addicted to superstitious fancies; neither 
was the age one in which the belief of sorcery was preva- 
lent. Still, in the south of Italy, there was then, and 
there still lingers, a certain spirit of credulity, which may,, 
ever and anon, be visible amidst the boldest dogmas of 
their philosophers and sceptics. In his childhood the 
Prince had learned strange tales of the ambition, the 
genius, and the career of his grandsire, — and secretly, 
perhaps influenced by ancestral example, in earlier youth 
he himself had followed, not only through her legitimate 
course, but her antiquated and erratic windings. I have, 
indeed, been shown in Naples a little volume, blazoned 
with the arms of the Visconti, and ascribed to the noble- 
man I refer to, which treats of alchemy in a spirit half 
mocking and half reverential. 

Pleasure soon distracted him from such speculations, 
and his talents, which were unquestionably great, were 
wholly perverted to extravagant intrigues, or to the 
embellishment of a gorgeous ostentation with something 
of classic grace. His immense wealth, his imperious; 
pride, his unscrupulous and daring character, made him 
an object of no inconsiderable fear to a feeble and timid 
court; and the ministers of the indolent government 
willingly connived at excesses which allured him at least 
from ambition. The strange visit, and yet more strange 
departure of Mejnour, filled the breast of the Neapolitan 
with awe and wonder, against which all the haughty 


624 


ZICCI. 


arrogance and learned scepticism of his maturer manhood 
combated in vain. The apparition of Mejnour served, 
indeed, to invest Zicci with a character in which the 
Prince had not hitherto regarded him. He felt a strange 
alarm at the rival he had braved, — at the foe he had 
provoked. His night was sleepless, and the next morning 
he came to the resolution of leaving Isabel in peace until 
after the banquet of that day, to which he had invited 
Zicci. He felt as if the death of the mysterious Corsican 
were necessary for the preservation of his own life ; and 
if at an earlier period of their rivalry he had determined 
on the fate of Zicci, the warnings of Mejnour only served 
to confirm his resolve. 

“We will try if his magic can invent an antidote to the 
bane, ” said he, half aloud and with a gloomy smile, as he 
summoned Mascari to his presence. The poison which 
the Prince, with his own hands, mixed into the wine 
intended for his guest was compounded from materials 
the secret of which had been one of the proudest heir- 
looms of 'that able and evil race which gave to Italy her 
wisest and fellest tyrants. Its operation was quick, not 
sudden: it produced no pain; it left on the form no 
grim convulsion, on the skin no purpling spot, to arouse 
suspicion, — you might have cut and carved every mem- 
brane and fibre of the corpse, but the sharpest eyes of the 
leech would not have detected the presence of the subtle 
life-queller. Por twelve hours the victim felt nothing, 
save a joyous and elated exhilaration of the blood, — a 
delicious languor followed, the sure forerunner of apo- 
plexy. No lancet then could save! Apoplexy had run 
much in the families of the enemies of the Visconti ! 

The hour of the feast arrived, — the guests assembled. 
There were the flower of the Neapolitan seignorie , — 
the descendants of the Norman, the Teuton, the Goth; 


ZICCI. 


625 


for Naples had then a nobility, but derived it from the 
North, which has indeed been ihQ Nutrix Leonum^ — 
the nurse of the lion-hearted chivalry of the world. 

Last of the guests came Zicci, and the crowd gave way 
as the dazzling foreigner moved along to the lord of the 
palace. The Prince greeted him with a meaning smile, 
to which Zicci answered by a whisper, “ He who plays 
with loaded dice does not always win.” 

The Prince bit his lip; and Zicci, passing on, seemed 
deep in conversation with the fawning Mascari. 

Who is the Prince’s heir?” asked the Corsican. 

“A distant relation on the mother’s side; with his 
Excellency dies the male line.” 

“ Is the heir present at our host’s banquet ? ” 

“ No; they are not friends.” 

“No matter; he will be here to-morrow! ” 

Mascari stared in surprise; but the signal for the 
banquet was given, and the guests were marshalled to 
the board. As was the custom, the feast took place 
at midday. It was a long, oval hall, the whole of one 
side opening by a marble colonnade upon a court or 
garden, in which the eye rested gratefully upon cool 
fountains and statues of whitest marble, half sheltered 
by orange-trees. Every art that luxury could invent to 
give freshness and coolness to the languid and breezeless 
heat of the day without (a day on which the breath of 
the sirocco was abroad) had been called into existence. 
Artificial currents of air through invisible tubes, silken 
blinds waving to and fro as if to cheat the senses into 
the belief of an April wind, and miniature d^eau in 
each corner of the apartment, gave to the Italians the 
same sense of exhilaration and comfort (if I may use the 
word) which the well-drawn curtains and the blazing 
hearth afford to the children of colder climes. 


626 


ZICCI. 


The conversation was somewhat more lively and 
intellectual than is common among the languid pleasure- 
hunters of the South; for the Prince, himself accom- 
plished, sought his acquaintance not only amongst the 
heaux esprits of his own country, but amongst the gay 
foreigners who adorned and relieved the monotony of 
the Neapolitan circles. There were present two or 
three of the brilliant Frenchmen of the old regime, 
and their peculiar turn of thought and wit was well cal- 
culated for the meridian of a society that made the dolce 
far niente at once its philosophy and its faith. The 
Prince , however, was more silent than usual ; and when 
he sought to rouse himself, his spirits were forced and 
exaggerated. To the manners of his host, those of 
Zicci afforded a striking contrast. The bearing of this 
singular person was at all times characterized by a 
calm and polished ease, which was attributed by the 
courtiers to the long habit of society. He could scarcely 
be called gay; yet few persons more tended to animate 
the general spirits of a convivial circle. He seemed, 
by a kind of intuition, to elicit from each companion 
the qualities in which he most excelled; and a certain 
tone of latent mockery that characterized his remarks 
upon the topics on which the conversation fell, seemed 
to men who took nothing in earnest to be the language 
both of wit and wisdom. To the Frenchmen, in particu- 
lar, there was something startling in his intimate 
knowledge of the minutest events in their own capital 
and country, and his profound penetration (evinced but 
in epigrams and sarcasms) into the eminent characters 
who were then playing a part upon the great stage of 
Continental intrigue. It was while this conversation 
grew animated, and the feast was at its height, that 
Glyndon (who, as the reader will recollect, had resolved, 


ZICCL 


627 


on learning from Cetoxa the capture of the actress, to 
seek the Prince himself) arrived at the palace. The 
porter, perceiving by his dress that he was not one of 
the invited guests, told him that his Excellency was 
engaged, and on no account could be disturbed; and 
Glyndon then, for the first time, became aware of how 
strange and embarrassing was the duty he had taken on 
himself. To force an entrance into the banquet hall 
of a great and powerful noble, surrounded by the rank 
of Naples, and to arraign him for what to his boon 
companions would appear but an act of gallantry, was 
an exploit that could not fail to be at once ludicrous and 
impotent. He mused a moment, and remembering 
that Zicci was among the guests, determined to apply 
himself to the Corsican. He therefore, slipping a 
few crowns into the porter’s hand, said that he was 
commissioned to seek the Signor Zicci upon an errand of 
life and death, and easily won his way across the court, 
and into the interior building. He passed up the broad 
staircase, and the voices and merriment of the revellers 
smote his ear at a distance. At the entrance of the 
reception rooms he found a page, whom he despatched 
with a message to Zicci. The page did the errand; 
and the Corsican, on hearing the whispered name of 
Glyndon, turned to his host. 

“Pardon me, my lord: an English friend of mine, 
the Signor Glyndon (not unknown by name to your 
Excellency), waits without, — the business must indeed 
be urgent on which he has sought me in such an hour. 
You will forgive my momentary absence.” 

“Nay, signor,” answered the Prince, courteously, but 
with a sinister smile on his countenance, “ would it not 
be better for your friend to join us ? An Englishman is 
welcome everywhere; and even were he a Dutchman, 


628 


ZICCI. 


your friendship would invest his presence with attrac- 
tion. Pray his attendance, — we would not spare you 
even for a moment. ” 

Zicci bowed; the page was despatched with all flatter- 
ing messages to Glyndon, — a seat next to Zicci was 
placed for him, and the young Englishman entered. 

“You are most welcome, sir. I trust your business 
to our illustrious guest is of good omen and pleasant 
import. If you bring evil news, defer it, I pray you.”, 

Glyndon ’s brow was sullen, and he was about to 
startle the guests by his reply, when Zicci, touching 
his arm significantly, whispered in English, “ I know 
why you have sought me. Be silent, and witness what 
ensues. ” 

“You know, then, that Isabel, whom you boasted 
you had the power to save from danger — ” 

“ Is in this house 'I — yes. I know also that murder 
sits at the right hand of our host. Be still, and learn 
the fate that awaits the foes of Zicci.” 

“ My lord,” said the Corsican, speaking aloud, “ the 
Signor Glyndon has indeed brought me tidings which, 
though not unexpected, are unwelcome. I learn that 
which will oblige me to leave Naples to-morrow, though 
I trust but for a short time. I have now a new motive 
to make the most of the present hour. ” 

“ And what, if I may venture to ask, may be the cause 
which brings such affliction on the fair dames of 
Naples?” 

“ It is the approaching death of one who honored me 
with most loyal friendship,” replied Zicci, gravely. 
“ Let us not speak of it, — grief cannot put .back the dial. 
As we supply by new flowers those that fade in our 
vases, so it is the secret of worldly wisdom to replace 
by fresh friendships those that fade from our path.” 


ZICCL 


629 


“ True philosophy,” exclaimed the Prince. “ ‘Not to 
admire,’ was the Homan’s maxim; never to mourn is 
mine. There is nothing in life to grieve for, save, 
indeed. Signor Zicci, when some beauty on whom we 
have set our heart slips from our grasp. In such a 
moment we have need of all our wisdom not to succumb 
to despair and shake hands with death. What say 
you, signor? You smile. Such never could be your 
lot. Pledge me in a sentiment, ‘ Long life to the- 
fortunate lover, — a quick release to the baffled 
suitor! ’ ” 

“ I pledge you,” said Zicci. And as the fatal wine 
was poured into his glass, he repeated, fixing his eyes on 
the Prince, “ I pledge you even in this wine ! ” 

He lifted the glass to his lips. The Prince seemed 
ghastly pale, while the gaze of the Corsican bent upon him 
with an intent and stern brightness that the conscience- 
stricken host cowered and quailed beneath. Not till he 
had drained the draught, and replaced the glass upon 
the board, did Zicci turn his eyes from the Prince; and 
he then said, “ Your wine has been kept too long, — it 
has lost its virtues. It might disagree with many ; but 
do not fear, — it will not harm me. Prince. Signor 
Mascari, you are a judge of the grape, — will you favor 
us with your opinion? ” 

“ Nay,” answered Mascari, with well-affected compos- 
ure, “ I like not the wines of Cyprus, they are 
heating. Perhaps Signor Glyndon may not have the 
same distaste. The English are said to love their 
potations warm and pungent.” 

" Do you wish my friend also to taste the wine, 
Prince ? ” said Zicci. " Recollect all cannot drink it with 
the same impunity as myself.” 

“No,” said the Prince, hastily; “if you do not 


€30 


ZICCI. 


recommend the wine, Heaven forbid that we should 
constrain our guests! My Lord Duke,” turning to one 
of the Frenchmen, “yours is the true soil of Bacchus. 
What think you of this cask from Burgundy ; has it 
borne the journey ? ” 

“ Ah ! ” said Zicci , “ let us change both the wine and 
the theme.” AVith that the Corsican grew more ani- 
mated and brilliant. Kever did wit more sparkling, 
airy, exhilarating, flash from the lips of reveller. His 
spirits fascinated all present — even the Prince himself, 
even Glyndon — with a strange and wild contagion. 
The former, indeed, whom the words and gaze of Zicci, 
when he drained the poison, had filled with fearful mis- 
givings, now hailed in the brilliant eloquence of his wit 
a certain sign of the operation of the bane. The wine 
circulated fast; but none seemed conscious of its effects. 
One by one the rest of the party fell into a charmed and 
spell-bound silence, as Zicci continued to pour forth 
sally upon sally, tale upon tale. They hung on his 
words, — they almost held their breath to listen. Yet 
how bitter was his mirth, how full of contempt for all 
things, how deeply steeped in the coldness of the deri- 
sion that makes sport of life itself! 

Night came on; the room grew dim, and the feast had 
lasted several hours longer than was the customary 
duration of similar entertainments at that day. Still 
the guests stirred not, and still Zicci continued, with 
glittering eye and mocking lip, to lavish his stores of 
intellect and anecdote, when suddenly the moon rose 
and shed its rays over the flowers and fountains in the 
court without, leaving the room itself half in shadow 
and half tinged by a quiet and ghostly light 

It was then that Zicci rose. “ AVell, gentlemen,” said 
he, “ we have not yet wearied our host, I hope, and his 


ZICCI. 


631 


garden offers a new temptation to protract our stay. 
Have you no musicians among your train, Prince, that 
might regale our ears while we inhale the fragrance of 
your orange-trees 1 ” 

“ An excellent thought,” said the Prince. “ Mascari,. 
see to the music. ” 

The party rose simultaneously to adjourn to the gar- 
den; and then, for the first time, the effect of the wine 
they had drunk seemed to make itself felt. 

With flushed cheeks and unsteady steps they came 
into the open air, which tended yet more to stimulate 
that glowing fever of the grape. As if to make up for 
the silence with which the guests had hitherto listened 
to Zicci, every tongue was now loosened, — every man 
talked, no man listened. In the serene beauty of the 
night and scene, there was something wild and fearful 
in the contrast of the hubbub and Babel of these disor- 
derly roysterers. One of the Frenchmen, in especial, 

the young Due de E, , — a nobleman of the highest 

rank, and of all the quick, vivacious, and irascible 
temperament of his countrymen, — was particularly noisy 
and excited. And as circumstances, the remembrance 
of which is still preserved among certain circles of 
Naples, rendered it afterwards necessary that the Due 
should himself give evidence of what occurred, I will 
here translate the short account he drew up, and which 
Avas kindly submitted to me some fCAV years ago by my 
accomplished and lively friend, il Cavaliere di B . 

“ I never remember,” writes the Due, “ to have felt ray 
spirits so excited as on that evening ; we were like so many 
boys released from school, jostling each other as we reeled or 
ran down the flight of seven or eight stairs that led from the 
colonnade into the garden, — some laughing, some whooping, 
some scolding, some babbling. The wine had brought out. 


632 


ZICCI. 


as it were, each man’s inmost character. Some were loud and 
quarrelsome, others sentimental and whining; some whom 
we had hitherto thought dull, most mirthful; some whom we 
had ever regarded as discreet and taciturn, most garrulous and 
uproarious. I remember that in the midst of our most 
clamorous gayety my eye fell upon the foreign cavalier, 
Signor Zicci, whose conversation had so enchanted us all ; and 
I felt a certain chill come over me to perceive that he bore 
the same calm and unsympathizing smile upon his counte- 
nance which had characterized it in his singular and curious 
stories of the court of Louis XV. I felt, indeed, half inclined 
to seek a quarrel with one whose composure was almost an 
insult to our disorder. Nor was such an effect of this irri- 
tating and mocking tranquillity confined to myself alone. 
Several of the party have told me since that on looking at 
Zicci they felt their blood rise and their hands wander to 
their sword-hilts. There seemed in the icy smile a very 
charm to wound vanity and provoke rage. It was at this 
moment that the Prince came up to me, and, passing his arm 
into mine, led me a little apart from the rest. He had 
certainly indulged in the same excess as ourselves, but it did 
not produce the same effect of noisy excitement. There was, 
on the contrary, a certain cold arrogance and supercilious 
scorn in his bearing and language, which, even while affecting 
so much caressing courtesy toward me, roused my self-love 
against him. He seemed as if Zicci had infected him, and 
that in imitating the manner of his guest he surpassed the 
original. He rallied me on some court gossip which had 
honored my name by associating it with a certain beautiful 
and distinguished Sicilian lady, and affected to treat with 
contempt that which, had it been true, I should have regarded 
as a boast. He spoke, indeed, as if he himself had gathered 
all the flowers of Naples, and left us foreigners only the 
gleanings he had scorned ; at this my natural and national 
gallantry was piqued, and I retorted by some sarcasms that I 
should certainly have spared had my blood been cooler. He 
laughed heartily, and left me in a strange fit of resentment 
and anger. Perhaps (I must own the truth) the wine had 


ZICCI. 


ess 


produced in me a wild disposition to take offence and provoke 
quarrel. As the Prince left me, I turned, and saw Zicci at 
my side. 

“ ‘ The Prince is a braggart,’ said he, with the same smile 
that displeased me before. ‘ He would monopolize all fortune 
and all love. Let us take our revenge.’ 

“ ‘ And how ] ’ 

“ ‘ He has at this moment, in his house, the most enchant- 
ing singer in Naples, — the celebrated Isabel di Pisani, She 
is here, it is true, not by her own choice; he carried her 
hither by force, but he will pretend to swear that she adores 
him. Let us insist on his producing the secret treasure, and, 

when she enters, the Due de R can have no doubt that 

his flatteries and attentions will charm the lady, and provoke 
all the jealous fears of our host. It would be a fair revenge 
upon his imperious self-conceit.’ 

“ This suggestion delighted me. I hastened to the Prince. 
At that instant the musicians had just commenced. I waved 
my hand, ordered the music to stop, and addressing the 
Prince, who was standing in the centre of one of the gayest 
groups, complained of his want of hospitality in affording to 
us such poor proficients in the art, while he reserved for his 
own solace the lute and voice of the first performer in Naples. 
I demanded, half laughingly, half seriously, that he should 
produce the Pisani. My demand was received with shouts of 
applause by the rest. We drowned the replies of our host 
with uproar, and would hear no denial. ‘ Gentlemen,’ at last 
said the Prince, when he could obtain an audience, ‘ even 
were I to assent to your proposal, I could not induce the 
signora to present herself before an assemblage as riotous as 
they are noble. You have too much chivalry to use compul- 
sion with her, though the Due de R forgets himself 

sufficiently to administer it to me.’ 

“ I was stung by this taunt, however well deserved. 
‘ Prince,’ said I, ‘ I have for the indelicacy of compulsion so 
illustrious an example, that I cannot hesitate to pursue the 
path honored by your own footsteps. All Naples knows that 
the Pisani despises at once your gold and your love, — that 


634 


ZICCI. 


force alone could have brought her under your roof, and 
that you refuse to produce her, because you fear her com- 
plaints, and know enough of the chivalry your vanity sneers 
at to feel assured that the gentlemen of France are not more 
disposed to worship beauty than to defend it from wrong. ’ 

“ ‘ You speak well, sir,’ said Zicci, gravely. ‘ The Prince 
dare not produce his prize I ’ 

“ The Prince remained speechless for a few moments, as if 
with indignation. At last he broke out into expressions the 
most injurious and insulting against Signor Zicci and myself. 
Zicci replied not, — I was more hot and hasty. The guests 
appeared to delight in our dispute. None except Mascari, 
whom we pushed aside and disdained to hear, strove to con- 
ciliate; some took one side, some another. The issue may be 
well foreseen. Swords were drawn. I had left mine in the 
anteroom; Zicci offered me his own, — I seized it eagerly. 
There might be some six or eight persons engaged in a strange 
and confused kind of melee, but the Prince and myself only 
sought each other. The noise around us — the confusion of 
the guests, the cries of the musicians, the clash of our own 
swords — only served to stimulate our unhappy fury. We 
feared to be interrupted by the attendants, and fought like 
madmen, without skill or method. I thrust and parried 
mechanically, blind and frantic as if a demon had entered 
into me, till I saw the Prince stretched at my feet, bathed in 
his blood, and Zicci bending over him and whispering in his 
ear. The sight cooled us all, — the strife ceased. We gathered 
in shame, remorse, and horror round our ill-fated host ; but 
it was too late, — his eyes rolled fearfully in his head, and 
still he struggled to release himself from Zicci’s arms, who 
continued to whisper (I trust divine comfort) in his ear. I 
have seen men die, but never one who wore such horror on 
his countenance. At last all was over ; Zicci rose from the 
corpse, and, taking, with great composure, his sword from my 
hand, ‘Ye are witnesses, gentlemen,’ said he, calmly, ‘that 
the Prince brought his fate upon himself. The last of that 
illustrious house has perished in a brawl.’ 

“ I saw no more of Zicci, — I hastened to the French 


ZICCI. 


635 * 


amToassador to narrate the event, and abide the issue, I am 
grateful to the Neapolitan government, and to the illustrious 
heir of the unfortunate nobleman, for the lenient and generous, 
yet just interpretation put upon a misfortune the memory of 
which will afflict me to the last hour of my life. 

(Signed) “Louis Victor, Due de R.” 

In the above memorial, the reader will find the most 
exact and minute account yet given of an event which 
created the most lively sensation at Naples in that day, 
and the narration of which first induced me to collect 
the materials of this history, — which the reader will 
perceive, as it advances, is altogether different in its 
nature, its agencies, and its aims, from those tales of 
external terror, whether derived from ingenious impos- 
ture or supernatural mystery, that have given life to 
French melodrama or German romance. 


636 


ZICCI. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Glyndon had taken no part in the affray, — neither 
had he participated largely in the excesses of the revel. 
For his exemption from both he was perhaps indebted to 
the whispered exhortations of Zicci. When the last 
rose from the corpse and withdrew from that scene of 
confusion, Glyndon remarked that in passing the crowd 
he touched Mascari on the shoulder, and said something 
which the Englishman did not overhear. Glyndon 
followed Zicci into the banquet-room, which, save 
where the moonlight slept on the marble floor, was 
wrapped in the sad and gloomy shadows of the advancing 
night. 

“ How could you foretell this fearful event? — he fell 
not by your arm! ” said Glyndon, in a tremulous and 
hollow tone. 

“ The general who calculates on the victory does not 
fight in person,” answered Zicci; " but enough of this: 
meet me at midnight by the seashore, — half a mile to 
the left of your hotel; you will know the spot by a 

rude pillar, the only one near ■, to which a broken 

chain is attached. There and then will be the crisis of 
your fate; go, — I have business here yet: remember, 
Isabel is still in the house of the dead man.” 

As Glyndon yet hesitated, strange thoughts, doubts 
and fears that longed for speech crowding within him, 
Mascari approached, and Zicci, turning to the Italian, 
and waving his hand to Glyndon, drew the former aside. 
Glyndon slowly departed. 


ZICCI. 


637 


* Mascari,” said Zicci, “your patron is no more; your 
services will be valueless to his heir, — a sober man, 
whom poverty has preserved from vice. Eor yourself, 
thank me that I do not give you up to the executioner, 
— recollect the wine of Cyprus. Well, never tremble, 
man, it could not act on me, though it might re-act on 
others , — in that it is a common type of crime. I for- 
give you; and if the wine should kill me, I promise you 
that my ghost shall not haunt so worshipful a penitent. 
Enough of this ; conduct me to the chamber of Isabel di 
Pisani. You have no farther need of her. The death 
of the jailer opens the cell of the captive. Be quick, — 
I would be gone.” Mascari muttered some inaudible 
words, bowed low, and led the way to the chamber in 
which Isabel was confined. 


638 


ZICCI. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

It wanted several minutes of midnight, and Glyndon 
repaired to the appointed spot. The mysterious empire 
which Zicci had acquired over him was still more 
solemnly confirmed by the events of the last few hours, 
• — the sudden fate of the Prince, so deliberately fore- 
shadowed, and yet so seemingly accidental, brought out 
by causes the most commonplace, and yet associated with 
words the most prophetic, — impressed him with the 
deepest sentiments of admiration and awe. It was as if 
this dark and wondrous being would convert the most 
ordinary events and the meanest instruments into the 
agencies of his inscrutable will, — yet, if so, why have 
permitted the capture of Isabel ? Why not have pre- 
vented the crime rather than punished the criminal? 
And did Zicci really feel love for Isabel ? Love, and 
yet offer to resign her to himself, — to a rival whom his 
arts could not fail to baffle. He no longer reverted to 
the belief that Zicci or Isabel had sought to dupe him 
into marriage. His fear and reverence for the former 
now forbade the notion of so poor an imposture. Did 
he any longer love Isabel himself? No; when that 
morning he heard of her danger, he had, it is true, 
returned to the sympathies and the fears of affection: 
but with the death of the Prince her image faded again 
from his heart, and he felt no jealous pang at the 
thought that she had been saved by Zicci , — that at that 
moment she was perhaps beneath his roof. Whoever 
bas, in the course of his life, indulged the absorbing 


ZICCI. 


639 


passion of the gamester will remember how all other 
pursuits and objects vanished from his mind; how 
solely he was wrapped in the one wild delusion ; with 
what a sceptre of magic power the despot demon ruled 
overy feeling and every thought. Far more intense 
than the passion of the gamester was the frantic yet sub- 
lime desire that mastered the breast of Glyndon. He 
would be the rival of Zicci not in human and perishable 
affections, but in preternatural and eternal lore. He 
would have laid down life with content, nay rapture, 
as the price of learning those solemn secrets which sepa- 
rated the stranger from mankind. Such fools are we 
when we aspire to be overwise! To be enamoured too 
madly of the goddess of goddesses is only to embrace a 
cloud, and to forfeit alike heaven and earth. 

The night was most lovely and serene, and the waves 
scarcely rippled at his feet, as the Englishman glided 
on by the cool and starry beach. At length he arrived 
at the spot, and there, leaning against the broken pillar, 
he beheld a man wrapped in a long mantle, and in an 
attitude of profound repose. He approached and uttered 
the name of Zicci. The figure turned, and he saw the 
face of a stranger: a face not stamped by the glorious 
beauty of the Corsican, but equally majestic in its 
aspect, and, perhaps, still more impressive from the 
mature age and the passionless depth of thought that 
characterized the expanded forehead and deep-set but 
piercing eyes. 

“You seek Zicci,” said the stranger; “he will be 
here anon; but, perhaps, he whom you see before you 
is more connected with your destiny, and more disposed 
to realize your dreams. ” 

“ Hath the earth then another Zicci ? ” 

“ If not,” replied the stranger, “ why do you cherish 


640 


ZICCI. 


the hope and the wild faith to he yourself a Ziccil 
Think you that none others have burned with the same 
god-like dream ? Who, indeed, in his first youth — 
youth when the soul is nearer to the heaven from which 
it sprung, and its divine and primal longings are not all 
effaced by the sordid passions and petty cares that are 
begot in time ? — who is there in youth that has not 
nourished the belief that the universe has secrets not 
known to the common herd, and panted, as the hart for 
the water-springs, for the fountains that lie hid and far 
away amidst the broad wilderness of trackless science ? 
The music of the fountain is heard in the soul within, 
till the steps, deceived and erring, rove away from its 
waters, and the wanderer dies in the mighty desert. 
Think you that none who have cherished the hope have 
found the truth; or that the yearning after the Ineffable 
Knowledge was given to us utterly in vain ? No; every, 
desire in human hearts is hut a glimpse of things that 
exist, — alike distant and divine. No! in the world 
there have been, from age to age, some brighter and 
happier spirits who have won to the air in which the 
beings above mankind move and breathe. Zicci, great 
though he be, stands not alone. He has his prede* 
cessors, his contemporary rivals, and long lines of suc- 
cessors are yet to come V’ 

“And will you tell me,” said Glyndon, “that in 
yourself I behold one of that mighty few over whom 
Zicci has no superiority in power and wisdom ? ” 

“ In me,” answered the stranger, “ you See one from 
whom Zicci himself learned many of his loftiest secrets. 
Before his birth my wisdom was ! On these shores — 
on this spot — have I stood in ages that your chronicles 
but feebly reach. The Phoenician, the Greek, the 
Oscan, the Homan, the Lombard, — I have seen them 


ZICCI. 


641 


all ! — leaves gay and glittering on the trunk of the 
universal life, scattered in due season, and again 
renewed ; till, indeed, the same race that gave its glory 
to the ancient world bestowed a second youth on the 
new. For the pure Greeks, — the Hellenes, — whose 
origin has bewildered your dreaming 'scholars were of 
the same great family as the Norman tribe, born to be 
the lords of the universe, and in no land on earth des- 
tined to be the hewers of wood. Even the dim tradi- 
tions of the learned that bring the sons of Hellas from 
the vast and undetermined territories of Northern 
Thrace, to be the victors of the pastoral Pelasgi, and 
the founders of the line of demi-gods, might serve you 
to trace back their primeval settlements to the same 
region whence, in later times, the Norman warriors 
broke on the dull and savage hordes of the Celt, and 
became the Greeks of the Christian world. But this 
interests you not, and you are wise in your indifference. 
Not in the knowledge of things without, but in the 
perfection of the soul within, lies the empire of man 
aspiring to be more than men.” 

“ And what books contain that science, — from what 
laboratory is it wrought ? ” 

" Nature supplies the materials: they are around you 
in. your daily walks ; in the herbs that the beast devours 
and the chemist disdains to cull; in the elem^ents, from 
which matter in its meanest and its mightiest shapes is 
deduced; in the wide bosom of the air; in the black 
abysses of the earth, — everywhere are given to mortals 
the resources and libraries of immortal lore. But &s the 
simplest problems in the simplest of all studies are 
obscure to one who braces not his mind to their compre- 
hension; as the rower in yonder vessel cannot tell you 
why two circles can touch each other only in one 


642 


ZICCI. 


point, — so, though all earth were carved over and 
inscribed with the letters of diviner knowledge, the char- 
acters would be valueless to him who does not pause to 
inquire the language and meditate the truth. Young 
man, if thy imagination is vivid, if thy heart is daring, 
if thy curiosity is insatiate, I will accept thee as my 
pupil. But the first lessons are stern and dread.” 

“ If thou hast mastered them, why not I ? ” answered 
Glyndon, boldly. “ I have felt from my boyhood that 
strange mysteries were reserved for my career, and 
from the proudest ends of ordinary ambition I have 
carried my gaze into the cloud and darkness that stretch 
beyond. The instant I beheld Zicci, I felt as if I had 
discovered the guide and the tutor for which my youth 
had idly languished and vainly burned.” 

“ And to me his duty can be transferred,” replied the 
stranger. “ Yonder lies, anchored in the bay, the vessel 
in which Zicci seeks a fairer home; a little while and 
the breeze will rise, the sail will swell, and the stranger 
will have passed like a wind away. Still, like the 
wind, he leaves in thy heart the seeds that may bear 
the blossom and the fruit. Zicci hath performed his 
task, — he is wanted no more; the perfecter of his work 
is at thy side. He comes, — I hear the dash of the oar. 
You will have your choice submitted to you. According 
as you decide, we shall meet again.” With these words 
the stranger moved slowly away and disappeared 
beneath the shadow of the cliffs. A boat glided rapidly 
across the waters , — it touched land , a man leaped on 
shore, and Glyndon recognized Zicci. 

“I give thee, Glyndon, — I give thee no more the 
option of happy love and serene enjoyment. That hour 
is past, and fate has linked the hand that might have 
been thine own to mine. But I have ample gifts to 


ZICCI. 


643 


bestow upon thee if thou wilt abandon the hope that 
gnaws thy heart, and the realization of which even I 
have not the power to foresee. Be thine ambition 
human, and I can gratify it to the full. Men desire 
four things in life: love, wealth, fame, power. The 
first I cannot give thee, — no matter why; the rest are 
at my disposal. Select which of them thou wilt, and 
let us part in peace. ” 

“ Such are not the gifts I covet : I choose knowedge, 

— which indeed, as the schoolman said, is power, and 
the loftiest, — that knowledge must be thine own. For 
this, and for this alone, I surrendered the love of Isabel; 
this, and this alone, must be my recompense.” 

“ I cannot gainsay thee, though I can warn. The 
desire to learn does not always contain the faculty to 
acquire. I can give thee, it is true, the teacher, the 
rest must depend on thee. Be wise in time, and take 
that which I can assure to thee.” 

“ Answer me but these questions, and according to 
your answer I will decide. Is it in the power of man 
to attain intercourse with the beings of other worlds ? 
Is it in the power of man to read the past and the 
future, and to insure life against the sword, and against 
disease 1 ” 

“ All this may be possible,” answered Zicci, evasively, 
to the few. But for one who attains such secrets, 
millions may perish in the attempt.” 

“ One question more. Thou — ” 

" Beware! Of myself, as I have said before, I render 
no account.” 

“ Well, then, the stranger I have met this night, 

— are his boasts to be believed ? Is he in truth one of 
the chosen seers whom you allow to have mastered the 
mysteries I yearn to fathom ? ” 


644 


ZICCI. 


“Kash man/' said Zicci,.in a tone of compassion, 
^‘thy crisis is past, and thy choice made. I can only 
bid thee be bold and prosper. Yes; I resign thee to a 
master who has the power and the will to open to thee 
the gates of the awful world. Thy weal or woe are as 
nought in the eyes of his relentless wisdom. I would 
bid him spare thee, but he will heed me not. Mejnour 
receive thy pupil! ” Glyndon turned, and his heart 
beat when he perceived that the stranger, whose foot- 
steps he had not heard on the pebbles, whose approach 
he had not beheld in the moonlight, was once more by 
his side. 

Glyndon 's eyes followed the receding form of the 
mysterious Corsican. He saw him enter the boat, and 
he then for the first time noticed that besides the rowers 
there was a female, who stood up as Zicci gained the 
boat. Even at this distance he recognized the once- 
adored form of Isabel She waved her hand to him, and 
across the still and shining air came her voice, mourn- 
fully and sweetly in her native tongue, ‘‘Farewell, Clar- 
ence , — farewell , farewell. ” 

He strove to answer, but the voice touched a chord at 
his heart, and the words failed him. Isabel was then 
lost forever, gone with this dread stranger, — darkness 
was round her lot. And he himself had decided her 
fate and his own! The boat bounded on, the soft waves 
flashed and sparkled beneath the oars, and it was along 
one sapphire track of moonlight that the frail vessel 
bore away the lovers. Farther and farther from his gaze 
sped the boat, till at last the speck, scarcely visible, 
touched the side of the ship that lay lifeless in the glori- 
ous bay. At that instant, as if by magic, up sprang with 
a glad murmur the playful and refreshing wind. And 
Glyndon turned to Mejnour, and broke the silence. 


ZICCI. 


645 


“ Tell me — if thou canst read the future — tell me 
that her lot will he fair, and that her choice at least is 
wise. ” 

“ My pupil,” answered Mejnour, in a voice the calm- 
ness of which well accorded with the chilling words, 
thy first task must be to withdraw all thought, feeling, 
sympathy from others. The elementary stage of knowl- 
edge is to make self, and self alone, thy study and thy 
world. Thou hast decided thine own career: thou hast 
renounced love; thou hast rejected wealth, fame, and 
the vulgar pomps of power. What, then, are all man- 
kind to thee ? To perfect thy faculties and concentrate 
thy emotions is henceforth thy only aim. ” 

“ And will happiness he the end ? ” 

“ If happiness exist,” answered Mejnour, “ it must 
be centred in A SELF to which all passion is unknown. 
But happiness is the last state of being, and as yet thou 
art on the threshold of the first! ” 

As Mejnour spoke, the distant vessel spread its sails 
to the wind, and moved slowly along the deep. Glyn- 
don sighed, and the pupil and the master retraced 
their steps toward the city. 


BOOK II. 


CHAPTER I. 

It was about a month after the date of Zicci’s departure^ 
and Glyndon’s introduction to Mejnour, when two Eng- 
lishmen were walking arm-in-arm through the Toledo. 

I tell you,” said one (who spoke warmly), “ that if 
you have a particle of common-sense left in you, you 
will accompany me to England. This Mejnour is an 
impostor more dangerous — because more in earnest — 
than Zicci. After all, what do his promises amount to? 
You allow that nothing can be more equivocal. You say 
that he has left Naples, — that he has selected a retreat 
more genial than the crowded thoroughfares of men to 
the studies in which he is to initiate you; and this 
retreat is among the haunts of the fiercest bandits of 
Italy, — haunts which Justice itself dare not penetrate: 
fitting hermitage for a sage! I tremble for you. What 
if this stranger, of whom nothing is known, be leagued 
with the robbers; and these lures for your credulity 
bait but the traps for your property, — perhaps your 
life ? You might come off cheaply by a ransom of half 
your fortune : you smile indignantly ; — well ! put com- 
mon-sense out of the question : take your own view of the 
matter. You are to undergo an ordeal which Mejnour 
himself does not profess to describe as a very tempting 
one. It may, or, it may not, succeed; if it does not 


ZICCI. 


647 


you are menaced with the darkest evils; and if it does, 
you cannot be better off than the dull and joyless mystic 
whom you have taken for a master. Away with this 
folly. Enjoy youth while it is left to you. Eeturn 
with me to England : forget these dreams. Enter your 
proper career; form affections more respectable than 
those which lured you awhile to an Italian adventuress, 
and become a happy and distinguished man. This is 
the advice of sober friendship; yet the promises I hold 
out to you are fairer than those of Mejnour. ” 

“Merton,” said Glyndon, doggedly, “I cannot, if I 
would, yield to your wishes. A power that is above 
me urges me on : I cannot resist its fascination. I will 
proceed to the last in the strange career I have com- 
menced. Think of me no more. Follow yourself the 
advice you give to me, — and be happy.” 

“This is madness,” said Merton, passionately, but 
with a tear in his eye ; “ your health is already failing ; 
you are so changed I should scarcely know you; come, 
— I have already had your name entered in my pass- 
port: in another hour I shall be gone, and you, boy that 
you are, will be left without a friend to the deceits of 
your own fancy, and the machinations of this relentless 
mountebank. ” 

“ Enough,” said Glyndon, coldly; “ you cease to be an 
effective counsellor when you suffer your prejudices to 
be thus evident. I have already had ample proof,” 
added the Englishman, and his pale cheek grew more 
pale, “ of the power of this man, — if man he be, which 
I sometimes doubt, — and, come life, come death, I will 
not shrink from the paths that allure me. Farewell, 
Merton, — if we never meet again; if you hear amidst 
our old and cheerful haunts that Clarence Glyndon sleeps 
the last sleep by the shores of Naples, or amidst the 


648 


ZICCI. 


Calabrian hills, — say to the friends of our youth, * He 
died worthily, as thousands of martyr-students have 
died before him, in the pursuit of knowledge/ ” 

He wrung Merton ^s hand as he spoke, darted , from 
his side, and disappeared amidst the crowd. 

That day Merton left Naples: the next morning 
Glyndon also quitted the City of Delight, alone and on 
horseback. He bent his way into those picturesque but 
dangerous parts of the country, which at that time were 
infested by banditti, and which few travellers dared to 
pass, even in broad daylight, without a strong escort. 
A road more lonely cannot well be conceived than that 
on which the hoof of his steed, striking upon the 
fragments of rock that encumbered the neglected way, 
woke a dull and melancholy echo. Large tracts of 
waste land , varied by the rank and profuse foliage of the 
South, lay before him: occasionally a wild goat peeped 
down from some rocky crag, or the discordant cry of a 
bird of prey, startled in its sombre haunt, was heard 
above the hills. These were the only signs of life; not 
a human being was met, — not a hut was visible. 
Wrapped in his own ardent and solemn thoughts, the 
young man continued his way, till the sun had spent its 
noon-day heat, and a breeze that announced the approach 
of eve sprung up from the unseen ocean that lay far 
distant to his sight. It was then that a turn in the 
road brought before him one of those long, desolate, 
gloomy villages which are found in the interior of the 
Neapolitan dominions; and now he came upon a small 
chapel on one side of the road, with a gaudily-painted 
image of the Virgin in the open shrine. Around this 
spot, which in the heart of a Christian land retained 
the vestige of the old idolatry (for just such were the 
chapels that in the Pagan age were dedicated to the 


ZICCI. 


649 


demon-saints of mythology), gathered six or seven 
miserable and squalid wretches whom the Curse of the 
Leper had cut off from mankind. They set up a shrill 
cry as they turned their ghastly visages toward the 
horseman, and, without stirring from the spot, stretched 
out their gaunt arms, and implored charity in the name 
of the Merciful Mother. Glyndon hastily threw them 
some small coins, and, turning away his face, clapped 
spurs to his horse, and relaxed not his speed till he 
entered the village. On either side the narrow and 
miry street, fierce and haggard forms — some leaning 
against the ruined walls of blackened huts, some seated 
at the threshold, some lying at full length in the mud 
— presented groups that at once invoked pity and aroused 
alarm; pity for their squalor, alarm for the ferocity 
imprinted on their savage aspects. They gazed at him, 
grim and sullen, as he rode slowly up the rugged street; 
sometimes whispering significantly to each other, but 
without attempting to stop his way. Even the children 
hushed their babble, and ragged urchins, devouring him 
with sparkling eyes, muttered to their mothers, “ We 
shall feast well to-morrow! ” It was, indeed, one of 
those hamlets in which Law sets not its sober step; in 
which Violence and Murder house secure, — hamlets 
common then in the wilder parts of Italy, — in which 
the peasant was but the gentler name for the robber. 

Glyndon’s heart somewhat failed him as he looked 
around, and the question he desired to ask died upon his 
lips. At length from one of the dismal cabins emerged 
a form superior to the rest. Instead of the patched and 
ragged overall which made the only garment of the men 
he had hitherto seen, the dress of this person was charac- 
terized by all the trappings of Calabrian bravery. Upon 
his raven hair, the glossy curls of which made a notable 


650 


ZICCI. 


contrast to the matted and elfin locks of the savages 
around, was placed a cloth cap with a gold tassel that 
hung down to his shoulder; his mustaches were trimmed 
with care, and a silk kerchief of gay hues was twisted 
round a well-shaped hut sinewy throat ; a short jacket of 
rough cloth was decorated with several rows of gilt fila- 
gree buttons; his nether garments fitted tight to his 
limbs, and were curiously braided; while, in a broad, 
parti-colored sash were placed four silver-hilted pistols; 
and the sheathed knife, usually worn by Italians of the 
lower order, was mounted in ivory elaborately carved. 
A small carbine of handsome workmanship was slung 
across his shoulder, and completed his costume. The 
man himself was of middle size, athletic, yet slender, 
with straight and regular features, sunburnt, but not 
swarthy ; and an expression of countenance which, though 
reckless and bold, had in it frankness rather than ferocity, 
and, if defying, was not altogether unprepossessing. 

Glyndon, after, eying this figure for some moments 
with great attention, checked his rein, and asked in the 
provincial patois, with which he was tolerably familiar, 
the way to the “ Castle of the Mountain. ” 

The man lifted his cap as he heard the question, and 
approaching Glyndon, laid his hand upon the neck of 
the horse, and said in a low voice, “ Then you are the 
cavalier whom our patron, the signor, expected. He 
bade me wait for you here, and lead you to the castle. 
And indeed, signor, it might have been unfortunate if I 
had neglected to obey the command. ” 

The man then, drawing a little aside, called out to 
the bystanders in a loud voice, “Ho, ho, my friends, 
pay henceforth and forever all respect to this worshipful 
cavalier. He is the accepted guest of our blessed patron 
of the Castle of the Mountain. Long life to him!' May 


ZICCL 


651 


he, like his host, be safe by day and by night, in the 
hill and on the waste, against the dagger and the bullet, 
in limb and in life! Cursed be he who touches a hair 
of his head, or a baioccho in his pouch. Now and for- 
ever we will protect and honor him, — for the law or 
against the law, with the faith, and to the death. 
Amen. Amen ! ” 

“ Amen ! ” responded in wild chorus a hundred voices, 
and the scattered and straggling groups pressed up the 
street, nearer and nearer to the horseman. 

“ And that he may be known,” continued the English- 
man’s strange protector, “ to the eye and to the ear, I 
place around him the white sash, and I give him the 
sacred watchword, < Peace to the Brave. ’ Signor, when 
you wear this sash, the proudest in these parts will bare 
the head and bend the knee. Signor, when you utter 
this watchword, the bravest hearts will be bound to your 
bidding. Desire you safety, or ask you revenge, — to 
gain a beauty, or to lose a foe, — speak but the word, 
and we are yours, we are yours! Is it not so, com- 
rades ? ” And again the hoarse voices shouted, “ Amen, 
amen! ” 

“ Now, signor, ” whispered the bravo, in good Italian, 
“ if you have a few coins to spare, scatter them amongst 
the crowd, and let us be gone. ” 

Glyndon, not displeased at the concluding sentence, 
emptied his purse in the street; and while, with mingled 
oaths, blessings, shrieks, and yells, men, women, and 
children scrambled for the money, the bravo, taking 
the rein of the horse, led it a few paces through the 
village at a brisk trot, and then turning up a narrow 
lane to the left, in a few minutes neither houses nor men 
were visible, and the mountains closed their path on 
either side. It was then that, releasing the bridle and 


652 


ZICCI. 


slackening his pace, the guide turned his dark eyes on 
Glyndon with an arch expression, and said, — 

“ Your Excellency was not, perhaps, prepared for the 
hearty welcwne we have given you.” 

“Why, in truth, I ought to have been prepared for 
it, since my friend, to whose house I am bound, did not 
disguise from me the character of the neighborhood. 
And your name, my friend, if I may call you so ? ” 

“ Oh, no ceremonies with me. Excellency. In the 
village I am generally called Maestro Paulo. I had a 
surname once, though a very equivocal one, — and I 
have forgotten that since I retired from the world.” 

“ And was it from disgust, from poverty, or from 
some — some ebullition of passion which entailed punish- 
ment, that you betook yourself to the mountains ? ” 
“Why, signor,” said the bravo, with a gay laugh, 
“ hermits of my class seldom love the confessional. 
However, I have no secrets while my step is in tliese 
defiles, my whistle in my pouch, and my carbine at my 
back.” With that the robber, as if he loved permission 
to talk at his will, hemmed thrice, and began with much 
humor; though, as his tale proceeded, the memories it 
roused seemed to carry him farther than he at first 
intended, and reckless and light-hearted ease gave way 
to that fierce and varied play of countenance and passion 
of gesture which characterize the emotions of his country- 
men. 

“I was born at Terracina, — a fair spot, is it notl 
My father was a learned monk of high birth ; my 
mother — Heaven rest her ! — an innkeeper’s pretty 
daughter. Of cornse there was no marriage in the case; 
and when I was born, the monk gravely declared my 
appearance to be miraculous. I was dedicated from my 
cradle to the altar, — and my head was universally 


ZICCI. 


653 


declared to be the orthodox shape for a cowl. As I 
grew up, the monk took great pains with my education, 
and I learned Latin and psalmody as soon as less miracu- 
lous infants learn crowing. Nor did the holy man’s 
care stint itself to my interior accomplishments. Although 
vowed to poverty, he always contrived that my mother 
should have her pockets full ; and, between her pockets 
and mine, there was soon established a clandestine com-^ 
munication; accordingly, at fourteen, I wore my cap on 
one side, stuck pistols in my belt, and assumed the 
swagger of a cavalier and a gallant. At that age my 
poor mother died ; and about the same period, my father, 
having written a ‘History of the Pontifical Bulls,’ in 
forty volumes, and being, as I said, of high birth, 
obtained a cardinal’s hat. From that time he thought 
fit to disown your humble servant. He bound me over 
to an honest notary at Naples, and gave me two hundred 
crowns by way of provision. Well, signor, I saw 
enough of the law to convince me that I should never 
be rogue enough to shine in the profession. So instead 
of spoiling parchment, I made love to the notary’s 
daughter. My master discovered our innocent amuse- 
ment, and turned me out of doors, — that was disagree- 
able. But my Ninetta loved me, and took care that I 
should not lie out in the streets with the lazzaroni. 
Little jade, I think I see her now, with her bare feet, 
and her finger to her lips, opening the door in the 
summer nights, and bidding me creep softly into the 
kitchen, where — praised be the saints ! — a flask and a 
manchet always awaited the hungry amoroso. At last, 
however, Ninetta grew cold. It is the way of the sex, 
signor. Her father found her an excellent marriage in 
the person of a withered picture-dealer. She took the 
spouse, and very properly clapped the door in the face 


654 


ZICCI. 


of the lover. I was not disheartened, Excellency ; no, 
not I. Women are plentiful while we are young. So, 
without a ducat in my pocket, or a crust for my teeth, 
I set out to seek my fortune on hoard of a Spanish 
merchantman. That was duller work than I expected; 
but luckily we were attacked by a pirate, — half the 
crew were butchered, the rest captured. I was one of 
the last, — always in luck, you see, signor: monks’ sons 
have a knack that way ! The captain of the pirate took 
a fancy to me. ^ Serve with us, ’ said he. ‘ Too happy,’ 
said I. Behold me then a pirate. O jolly life! how I 
blessed the old notary for turning me out of doors! 
What feasting, what fighting, what wooing, what quar- 
relling! Sometimes we ran ashore and enjoyed ourselves 
like princes; sometimes we lay in a calm for days 
together, on the loveliest sea that man ever traversed. 
And then, if the breeze rose, and a sail came in sight, 
who so merry as we? I passed three years in that 
charming profession, and then, signor, I grew ambitious. 
I caballed against the captain, — I wanted his post. 
One still night we struck the blow. The ship was like 
a log in the sea, — no land to be seen from the mast- 
head, the waves like glass, and the moon at its full. 
Up we rose, — thirty of us and more. Up we rose with 
a shout ; we poured into the captain’s cabin, — I at the 
head. The brave old boy had caught the alarm, and 
there he stood at the doorway, a pistol in each hand, — 
and his one eye (he had only one) worse to meet than 
the pistols were. 

“ ‘ Yield,’ cried I, ‘ your life shall be safe.’ 

Take that,’ said he, and whiz went the pistol: 
but the saints took care of their own, and the ball 
passed by my cheek, and shot the boatswain behind me. 
I closed with the captain, and the other pistol went off 


ZICCL 


655 


vnthout mischief in the struggle : such a fellow he was, 
six feet four without his shoes! Over we went, rolling 
each on the other. Santa Maria! — no time to get hold 
of one’s knife. Meanwhile all the crew were up, some 
for the captain, some for me, — clashing and firing, and 
swearing and groaning, and now and then a heavy- 
splash in the sea! Fine supper for the sharks that 
night! At last old Bilboa got uppermost: out flashed 
his knife; down it came, but not in my heart. No! 
I gave my left arm as a shield, and the blade went 
through and through up to the hilt, with the blood 
spurting up like the rain from a whale’s nostril. With 
the weight of the blow the stout fellow came down, so 
that his face touched mine ; with my right hand I caught 
him by the throat, turned him over like a lamb, signor, 
and faith it was soon all up with him: the boatswain’s 
brother, a fat Dutchman, ran him through with a pike. 

" ‘Old fellow,’ said I, as he turned up his terrible eye 
to me, ‘ I bear you no malice, but we must try to get on 
in the world, you know.’ The captain grinned and 
gave up the ghost. I went upon deck, — what a sight! 
Twenty bold fellows stark and cold, and the moon 
sparkling on the puddles of blood as calmly as if it were 
water. Well, signor, the victory was ours, and the 
ship mine: I ruled merrily enough for six months. 
We then attacked a French ship twice our size; what 
sport it was ! And we had not had a good fight so long : 
we were quite like virgins at it! We got the best of it, 
and won ship and cargo. They wanted to pistol the 
captain; but that was against my laws; so we gagged 
him, for he scolded as loud as if we were married to 
him; left him and the rest of his crew on board our own 
vessel, which was terribly battered; clapped our black 
flag on the Frenchman’s, and set off merrily, with af 


656 


ZICCI. 


brisk wind in our favor. But luck deserted us on for- 
saking our own dear old ship. A storm came on, a 
plank struck, several of us escaped in the boats: we 
had lots of gold with us, but no water. For two days 
and two nights we suffered horribly ; but at last we ran 
ashore near a French seaport; our sorry plight moved 
compassion, and as we had money we were not suspected, 
— people only suspect the poor. Here we soon recov- 
ered our fatigues, rigged ourselves out gayly, and your 
humble servant was considered as noble a captain as ever 
walked deck. But now, alas, my fate would have it 
that I should fall in love with a silk-mercer’s daughter. 
Ah! how I loved her, — the pretty Clara! Yes, I loved 
her so well, that I was seized with horror at my past 
life ; I resolved to repent, — to marry her, and settle 
down into an honest man. Accordingly, I summoned 
my messmates, told them my resolution, resigned my 
command, and persuaded them to depart. They were 
good fellows, engaged with a Dutchman, against whom 
I heard afterwards they made a successful mutiny, but I 
never saw them more. I had two thousand crowns still 
left; with this sum I obtained the consent of the silk- 
mercer, and it was agreed that I should become a partner 
in the firm. I need not say that no one suspected I had 
been so great a man, and I passed for a Neapolitan 
goldsmith’s son instead of a cardinal’s. I was very 
happy then, signor, very, — I could not have harmed a 
fly. Had I married Clara I had been as gentle a mercer 
as ever handled a measure. ” 

The bravo paused a moment, and it was easy to see 
that he felt more than his words and tone betokened. 
“ Well, well, we must not look back at the past too 
earnestly, — the sunlight upon it makes one’s eyes water. 
The day was fixed for our wedding, — it approached ; 


ZICCI. 


657 


on the evening before the appointed day, Clara, her 
mother, her little sister, and myself were walking by the 
port, and as we looked on the sea I was telling them old 
gossip tales of mermaids and sea-serpents, when a red- 
faced, bottle-nosed Frenchman clapped himself right 
before me, and placing his spectacles very deliberately 
astride his proboscis, echoed out, ‘ Sacri mille tonnerres f 
This is the damned pirate that boarded the “ Niobe ” ! ’ 
None of your jesls,’ said I, mildly. ‘ Ho, ho,’ 
said he. ‘I can’t be mistaken. Help there,’ and he 
gripped me by the collar. I replied, as you may sup- 
pose, by laying him in the kennel ; but it would not do. 
The French captain had a French lieutenant at his back, 
whose memory was as good as his master’s. A crowd 
assembled; other sailors came up, — the odds were 
against me. I slept that night in prison; and, in a few 
weeks afterwards, I was sent to the galleys. They had 
spared my life because the old Frenchman politely 
averred that I had made my crew spare his. You may 
believe that the oar and the chain were not to my taste. 
I, and two others, escaped; they took to the road, and 
have, no doubt, been long since broken on the wheel. 
I, soft soul, would not commit another crime to gain my 
bread, for Clara was still at my heart with her soft 
eyes; so, limiting my rogueries to the theft of a 
beggar’s rags, which I compensated him by leaving my 
galley attire instead, I begged my way to the town 
where I left Clara. It was a clear winter’s day when I 
approached the outskirts of the town. I had no fear of 
detection, for my beard and hair were as good as a mask. 
Oh, Mother of Mercy! there came across my way a 
funeral procession! There, now, you know it. I can 
tell you no more. She had died, perhaps of love, more 
likely of shame. Ho you know how I spent that night? 


658 


ZICCL 


I will tell you: I stole a pickaxe from a mason’s shed, 
and, all alone, and unseen, under the frosty heavens I 
dug the fresh mould from the grave, — I lifted the coffin , 
I wrenched the lid, I saw her again — again. Decay 
had hot touched her. She was always pale in her life! 
— I could have sworn she lived ! It was a blessed 
thing to see her once more , — and all alone too ! But 
then at dawn, to give her back to the earth; to close 
the lid; to throw down the mould; to hear the pebbles 
rattle on the coffin , — that was dreadful ! Signor, I 
never knew before, and I don’t wish to think now, how 
valuable a thing human life is. At sunrise I was 
again a wanderer; but now that Clara was gone my 
scruples vanished, and again I was at war with my 

betters. I contrived, at last, at O , to get taken on 

board a vessel bound to Leghorn, working out my 
passage. From Leghorn I went to Borne, and stationed 
myself at the door of the cardinal’s palace. Out he 
came, — his gilded coach at the gate. 

“ ‘ Ho, father,’ said I, ‘ don’t you know me? ’ 

“‘Who are you? ’ 

“ ‘ Your son,’ said I, in a whisper. 

“ The cardinal drew back, looked at me earnestly, and 
mused a moment. ^ All men are my sons,’ quoth he, then, 
very mildly, ‘ there is gold for thee. To him who begs 
once, alms are due; to him who begs twice, jails are open. 
Take the hint, and molest me no more. Heaven bless 
thee! ’ With that he got into his coach, and drove off 
to the Vatican. His purse, which he had left behind, 
was well supplied. I was grateful and contented, and took 
my way to Terracina. I had not long passed the marshes, 
when I saw two horsemen approach at a canter. 

“ ‘ You look poor, friend,’ said one of them, halting; 
‘ yet you are strong. ’ 


ZICCI. 659 

“ * Poor men and strong are both serviceable and dan- 
gerous, Signor Cavalier.’ 

“ ‘ Well said, — follow us.’ 

“ I obeyed and became a bandit. I rose by degrees; 
and as I have always been mild in my calling, and have 
taken purses without cutting throats, bear an excellent 
character, and can eat my macaroni at Naples without 
any danger to life and limbs. Por the last two years I 
have settled in these parts, where I hold sway, and 
where I have purchased land. I am called a farmer, 
signor; and I myself now only rob for amusement, and 
to keep my hand in. I trust I have satisfied your curi- 
osity. We are within a hundred yards of the castle.” 

“And how,” asked the Englishman, whose interest 
had been much excited by his companion’s narrative, — 
“ and how came you acquainted with my host ; and by 
what means has he so well conciliated the good will of 
yourself and your friends ? ” 

Maestro Paulo turned his black eyes gravely toward 
his questioner. “ Why, signor,” said he, “ you must 
surely know more of the foreign cavalier with the hard 
name than I do. All I can say is, that about a fort- 
night ago I chanced to be standing by a booth in the 
Toledo at Naples, when a sober-looking gentleman 
touched me by the arm, and said, ‘ Maestro Paulo, I 
want to make your acquaintance ; do me the favor to 
come into yonder tavern.’ When we were seated, my 
new acquaintance thus accosted me : ‘ The Count 

d’O has offered to let me hire his old castle near 

B . You know the spot ? ’ 

“ ‘ Extremely well ; no one has inhabited it for a cen- 
tury at least; it is half in ruins, signor. A queer place 
to hire, — I hope the rent is not heavy.’ 

“ ‘ Maestro Paulo,’ said he, ‘I am a philosopher, and 


660 zicci. 

don’t care for luxuries. I want a quiet retreat for 
some scientific experiments. The castle will suit me 
very well, provided you will accept me as a neighbor, 
and place me and my friends under your special protec- 
tion. I am rich; hut I shall take nothing to the castle 
worth robbing. I will pay one rent to the count, and 
another to you.’ 

“ With that we soon came to terms, and as the strange 
signor doubled the sum I myself proposed, he is in high 
favor with all his neighbors. We would guard the old 
castle against an army. And now, signor, that I have 
been thus frank, be frank with me. Who is this sin- 
gular cavalier? ” 

“ Who? — he himself told you, a philosopher.” 

“Hem! Searching for the philosopher’s stone, eh? 
A bit of a magician, — afraid of the priests? ” 

“ Precisely. You have hit it.” 

“ I thought so ; and you are his pupil ? ” 

“I am.” 

“I wish you well through it,” said the robber, seri- 
ously, and crossing himself with much devotion: “ I am 
not much better than other people, but one’s soul is 
one’s soul. I do not mind a little honest robbery, or 
knocking a man on the head if need be, — but to make 
a bargain with the Devil — Ah! take care, young 
gentleman, take care.” 

“You need not fear,” said Glyndon, smiling; “my 
preceptor is too wise and too good for such a compact. 
But hero we are, I suppose. A noble ruin! A glorious 
prospect! ” 

Glyndon paused delightedly, and surveyed the scene 
before and below with the eye of a poet and a painter. 
Insensibly, while listening to the bandit, he had wound 
up a considerable ascent, and now he was upon a broad 


ZICCI. 


661 


ledge of rock covered with mosses and dwarf shrubs. 
Between this eminence and another of equal height, 
upon which the castle was built, there was a deep but 
narrow fissure, overgrown with the most profuse foliage, 
so that the eye could not penetrate many yards below 
the rugged surface of the abyss; but the profoundness 
might well be conjectured by the hoarse, low, monoton- 
ous sound of waters unseen that rolled below, and the 
subsequent course of which was visible at a distance in 
a perturbed and rapid stream that intersected the waste 
and desolate valleys. To the left, the prospect seemed 
almost boundless; the extreme clearness of the purple 
air serving to render distinct the features of a range of 
country that a conqueror of old might have deemed in 
itself a kingdom. Lonely and desolate as the road 
which Glyndon had passed that day had appeared, the 
landscape now seemed studded with castles, spires, and 
villages. Afar off, Naples gleamed whitely in the last 
rays of the sun, and the rose-tints of the horizon melted 
into the azdre of her glorious bay. Yet more remote, 
and in another part of the prospect, might be caught, dim 
and shadowy, and backed by the darkest foliage, the 
ruined village of the ancient Possidonia. There, in the 
midst of his blackened and sterile realms, rose the 
dismal Mount of Fire; while, on the other hand, wind- 
ing through variegated plains, to which distance lent all 
its magic, glittered many a stream, by which Etruscan 
and Sybarite, Koman and Saracen and Norman had, 
at intervals of ages, pitched the invading tent. All 
the visions of the past — the stormy and dazzling histo- 
ries of Southern Italy — rushed over the artist’s mind as 
he gazed below. And then, slowly turning to look 
behind, he saw the gray and mouldering walls of the 
castle in which he sought the secrets that were to give 


662 


ZICCI. 


to hope in the future a mightier empire than memory 
owns in the past. It was one of those baronial fortresses 
with which Italy was studded in the earlier middle ages, 
having but little of the Gothic grace of grandeur which 
belongs to the ecclesiastical architecture of the same 
time, but rude, vast, and menacing even in decay. A 
wooden bridge was thrown over the chasm, wide 
enough to admit two horsemen abreast; and the planks 
trembled and gave back a hollow sound as Glyndon 
urged his jaded steed across. 

A road that had once been broad, and paved with 
rough flags, but which now was half obliterated by 
long grass and rank weeds, conducted to the outer court 
of the castle hard by; the gates were open, and half the 
building in this part was dismantled, the ruins partially 
hid by ivy that was the growth of centuries. But on 
entering the inner court, Glyndon was not sorry to 
notice that there was less appearance of neglect and 
decay : some wild roses gave a smile to the gray walls,, 
and in the centre there was a fountain, in which the 
waters still trickled coolly, and with a pleasing mur- 
mur, from the jaws of a gigantic triton. Here he was 
met by Mejnour with a smile. 

“ Welcome, my friend and pupil,” said he; he who 
seeks for Truth can find in these solitudes an immortal 
Academe ” 


ZICCI. 


663 


CHAPTEK II. 

The attendants which Mejnour had engaged for his 
strange abode were such as might suit a philosopher of 
few wants. An old Armenian, whom Glyndon recognized 
as in the mystic’s service at Naples; a tall, hard-featured 
woman from the village, recommended by Maestro Paulo ; 
and two long-haired, smooth-spoken, hut fierce-visaged 
youths, from the same place, and honored by the same 
sponsorship, constituted the establishment. The rooms 
used by the sage were commodious and weather-proof, with 
some remains of ancient splendor in the faded arras that 
clothed the walls and the huge tables of costly marble and 
elaborate carving. Glyndon’s sleeping apartment com- 
municated with a kind of belvidere or terrace that 
commanded prospects of unrivalled beauty and extent, 
and was separated, on the other side, by a long gallery 
and a flight of ten or a dozen stairs, from the private 
chambers of the mystic. There was about the whole 
place a sombre, and yet not displeasing depth of repose. 
It suited well with the studies to which it was now to be 
appropriated. 

Eor several days Mejnour refused to confer with 
Glyndon on the subjects nearest to his heart. 

“ All without, ” said he, “ is prepared, but not all with- 
in. Your own soul must grow accustomed to the spot, 
and filled with the surrounding nature, — for nature is 
the source of all inspiration. ” 

With these words, which savored a little of jargon, 
Mejnour turned to lighter topics. He tnade the English- 


664 


ZICCI. 


man accompany him in long rambles through the wild 
scenes around, and he smiled approvingly when the young 
artist gave way to the enthusiasm which their fearful 
beauty could not have failed to rouse in a duller breast ; 
and then Mejnour poured forth to his wondering pupil 
the stores of a knowledge that seemed inexhaustible and 
boundless. He gave accounts the most curious, graphic, 
and ‘minute, of the various races, — their characters , 
habits, creeds, and manners, by which that fair land had 
been successively overrun. It is true that his descriptions 
could not be found in books, and were unsupported by 
learned authorities, but he possessed the true charm of the 
tale-teller, and spoke of all with the animated confidence 
of a personal witness. Sometimes, too, he would converse 
upon the more durable and the loftier mysteries of nature 
With an eloquence and a research which invested them 
with all the colors rather of poetry than science. Insen- 
sibly the young artist found himself elevated and soothed 
by the lore of his companion ; the fever of his wild desires 
was slaked. His mind became more and more lulled 
into the divine tranquillity of contemplation; he felt 
himself a nobler being; and in the silence of his senses 
he imagined that he heard the voice of his soul. 

It was to this state that Mejnour sought to bring the 
neophyte, and in this elementary initiation the mystic 
was like every more ordinary sage. For he who seeks to 
discover must first reduce himself into a kind of abstract 
idealism, and be rendered up, in solemn and sweet bond^ 
age, to the faculties which contemplate and imagine. 

Glyndon noticed that, in their rambles, Mejnour often 
paused where the foliage was rifest, to gather some herb 
or flower ; and this reminded him that he had seen Zicci 
similarly occupied. “ Can these humble children of 
nature,” said he one day to Mejnour, things that 


ZICCI. 


665 


bloom and wither in a day, be serviceable to the science 
of the higher secrets ? Is there a pharmacy for the soul 
as well as the body, and do the nurslings of the summer 
minister not only to human health but spiritual immor- 
tality ? ” 

“If,” answered Mejnour, “before one property of 
herbalism was known to them, a stranger had visited a 
wandering tribe, — if he had told the savages that the 
herbs which every day they trampled underfoot were 
endowed with the most potent virtues; that one would 
restore to health a brother on the verge of death; that 
another would paralyze into idiocy their wisest sage ; that 
a third would strike lifeless to the dust their most stalwart 
champion; that tears and laughter, vigor and disease, 
madness and reason, wakefulness and sleep, existence 
and dissolution, were coiled up in those unregarded 
leaves, — would they not have held him a sorcerer or a 
liar ? To half the virtues of the vegetable world man- 
kind are yet in the darkness of the savages, I have 
supposed. There are faculties within us with which 
certain herbs have affinity, and over which they have 
power. The moly of the ancients was not all a fable.” 

One evening Glyndon had lingered alone and late 
upon the ramparts, — watching the stars as, one by one, 
they broke upon the twilight. Never had he felt so 
sensibly the mighty power of the heavens and the earth 
upon man, — how much the springs of our intellectual 
being are moved and acted upon by the solemn influences 
of nature ! As a patient on whom, slowly and by degrees, 
the agencies of mesmerism are brought to bear, he 
acknowledged to his heart the growing force of that vast 
and universal magnetism which is the life of creation, and 
binds the atom to the whole. A strange and ineffable 
consciousness of power, of the something great within the 


666 


ZICCI. 


perishable clay, appealed to feelings at once dim and 
glorious, — rather faintly recognized than all unknown. 
An impulse that he could not resist led him to seek the 
mystic. He would demand, that hour, his initiation into 
the worlds beyond our world, — he was prepared to 
breathe a diviner air. He entered the castle, and strode 
through the shadowy and star-lit gallery which conducted 
to Mejnour’s apartment. 


THE END.^ 


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